


you in your veil and your pale white dress

by feralphoenix



Series: you can only use your own [7]
Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Complex Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - C-PTSD, Cultural Alienation, Disabled Character, Literary References & Allusions, Other, Past Child Abuse, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-17
Updated: 2016-07-17
Packaged: 2018-07-24 12:41:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 33,822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7508707
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/feralphoenix/pseuds/feralphoenix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>It’s been five years, after all—Asgore and Toriel have all but faded into the background when it comes to politics, and Asriel isn’t completely overwhelmed with kingship anymore. His parents are ready to retire for real, and you’re as ready as you’re ever going to be to step up to take their place, and you have the time and the gold to devote to a wedding ceremony. That means that it’s time now for you and Asriel to finally, finally be married.</i>
</p><p>Or: Chara attempts to process some things while dealing with wedding planning.</p>
            </blockquote>





	you in your veil and your pale white dress

**Author's Note:**

> _(and all I wanted was a sliver to call mine_ – I am my beloved's and my beloved is mine.)  
>   
> 
> this story is set five years after [a wish you tell a star and no one else](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6941491).
> 
> warnings for discussion of all the usual stuff pertinent to chara (c-ptsd, anxiety, self-negativity, abuse, etc). also, because this story deals in part with chara's background, this story features some discussion of antisemitism, transphobia, bullying, sexual harassment, and gender presentation-related dysphoria. there's some brief discussion of homelessness in relation to another character, too.
> 
> wrt the "disabled character" tag, chara has chronic pain (among various other mild-to-moderate chronic health issues) as a result of their poisoning. see [somebody out there needs you](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5431163) for details.

The castle is so much bigger than you usually appreciate.

A lot of that is probably just that you’ve spent so much of your life only in the royal living quarters, which are as small and humble as an average monster’s house—three bedrooms and a living room and a kitchen and the throne room and garden down a flight of stairs and across a rampart. You’ve never really had to bother with the rest of the castle except when you were accompanying Asriel to meetings and other royal business-related nonsense; because you’re in business mode too when you act as his guard, you think differently, engage with your surroundings differently. Those bits of the castle you travel through then still feel divorced from your mental concept of it as a result.

Some of that sense of grand size probably has to do with how early it is. There would ordinarily be monsters here and there in the halls and doing their jobs in the different rooms, but right now it’s so empty that your footsteps ring in the wide halls.

You’ve been taking these morning walks for a good few months now. At your age and with your terrible joints, you need the gentle warm-up in order to be active later on; it’s also a good wake-up routine to clear your head of grogginess and make sure you’re ready to face the day. Too, it’s a good way to familiarize yourself with the floor plan, pacing the halls of one floor or another for ten or twenty minutes every morning. The knowledge will come in handy soon.

And that’s the real reason why the castle feels so much bigger now, grown into yourself as you are. Even though Asgore and Toriel have both been easing further and further back in their prominence as Asriel’s advisers every year, they’re finally going to retire formally after your wedding. They’ll be moving back to the old capital, to live quietly and enjoy their freedom from responsibility now that they’re aging. Very soon now, it’s just going to be you and Asriel here.

It’s so strange. They’ve been so constant in your life for twenty years—comforting and steady and supportive. They’ll still be a few hours’ journey away if you take the Riverperson’s ferry, of course, but it won’t be quite the same as knowing that you’ll see them every morning when you wake up anymore.

It’s so strange. And you still don’t think that it’s sunk in fully, not yet. But walking every morning like this, thinking about it, things have slowly simmered from baffled low-key panic to a sense of helpless wistfulness. You think about Asgore having Undyne take up more and more of his role of teacher and supervisor in your daily practice sessions. You think about Toriel teaching Asriel to cook, teaching him how to blend and count out your medicines, instructing you both on how often to check in with her about making sure each dosage is still appropriate.

Your heart aches. It aches, but—your soul thrums with determination. You’ll do your best not to let them down. To follow their example, and help Asriel be the best monarch he can be.

As you so often do, you finish up your walk by heading in the direction of the royal kitchens. Tea and simple dishes are still the best you can manage, but it’s really just the lovely equipment and furnishings you go to admire. It’s your favorite part of the castle proper, aside from your own living quarters.

You don’t remember anymore whether your fondness for kitchens predates your fateful meeting with Sakurai Mikage and Tanabe Yuuichi and Eriko when you’d been loitering in the library to avoid having to return to your parents’ house. You certainly grew more aware of them after reading _Kitchen,_ to say the least.

Years ago there would be times you’d look at Asriel and think of lovers staring over the edge of the cauldron of hell. Times you’d think, _but the place we are in now is just too dreadful. It is not a place where two people can build a life together._

You look at him now and you don’t even have to think the words: They rise up from your heart, gold and shining. _Still, to cease living is unacceptable._

Love courses through you like blood. Like hope. You’re smiling as you duck into the kitchens.

That smile freezes on your face a little when you notice that you’re not alone.

Standing over by the sink is the newest human child to arrive—of course if you have to trip over one of the others early when your defenses are down, it has to be the one you’re not used to yet. But he—Astis, you remind yourself—starts to turn toward you, and it’s definitely too late to turn adroitly and make a stealthy retreat, so you take a deep breath and square your shoulders and carefully do not flee.

“Oh…” He smiles a little, troubled, and clasps his big soft hands at his middle. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know you were coming, I can leave if I’m being a bother.”

You shake your head and surreptitiously fold your thumb to play with the band of your ring. “It’s all right. I’m not here to use anything, and besides, you were here before me. You don’t have to let me chase you out.”

Like teasing a loose tooth with your tongue, you have to remind yourself that you’re no longer so fragile that you’ll go to pieces when faced with an unfamiliar human, so you take another deliberate step forward. You’re an adult, you can defend yourself well enough, you’re armed—your gloves with the summoning runes on the palms are in your pocket, and your knife is in its sheath at your hip where it belongs. You’re fine.

Besides, Astis isn’t at all threatening, as far as humans go. His round doughy build reminds you a little of Asriel back when you were both kids, and his face is soft and sweet. You sat in on Asriel and his parents helping him find a place to live, when he’d first fallen—well, inasmuch as half-cowering behind your fiancé’s shoulder in complete silence counts as sitting in—and even back then, watching him from your peripheral vision, your impression of him was dominated by his easy smile. He’s got a mop of unruly black curls, sloe-black eyes with thick lashes, a big round nose, and a mole on his right cheekbone. His skin’s light brown—darker than you and Liron, lighter than Rufus and Innig—and he has a slightly different accent than you and the other fallen humans. If you had any familiarity with it when you were a child on the surface, it’s been much too long for you to place it now.

He’s wearing the same slightly stained apron he was then, you note, and you fold your own hands at your waist, knitting your fingers together to keep them occupied. “Are _you_ using the kitchen for anything?”

Astis’ eyes widen, and he laughs a little, awkward, reaching up to scratch the side of his face. “Um—no, not exactly. I mean, I’d love to try! This seems like a very nice one. But I don’t know who to ask for permission, so I wouldn’t, yet. I just… like kitchens a lot.”

As if those words were the key to some switch deep inside your heart, you can feel yourself relax all at once. The smile that had sat somewhat stiffly upon your lips softens, becomes genuine.

“I like them too,” you tell him. “And don’t worry. If no one is already in here, you can use this place whenever you like. Just make sure to clean up after yourself when you’re done, and you’ll be fine; we’re not that formal, here.”

He still looks nervous, so you march deliberately over to the big pantry of ingredients and open it, searching for the boxes of tea with your forefinger upraised. All the fiddly little steps of preparing looseleaf are a bit too much for your nerves right now, especially if you’re trying to hold a conversation, so you resolve with some regret to prepare something bagged. “I’m going to make some tea while we’re standing here—would you like some?”

“I would love some, if it’s not too much trouble,” Astis answers, polite but with eagerness in his voice. “Any kind of tea is fine with me.”

“That’s good, because all I can find is green tea and ginger peach—nothing all that fancy.” You take out the box of the latter, and start looking through the cabinets for a teapot. Astis waits a beat and then decides to assist you, starting on the other end of the room. You look over your shoulder at him—he’s a lot more careful and methodical than you, as if he’s overly conscientious about intruding on space that isn’t his. “While we’re looking… how have you been settling in on your own? Hopefully it helps that monsters tend to be charitable people anyway, but it surprised me that you wanted to get your own home and job instead of finding someone to stay with. You’re… eleven, wasn’t it? I know I couldn’t have handled taking care of myself at that age.” Which is putting it lightly, but you’re not going to disclose just how much of a mess you were then to someone you barely know, especially if that someone is a young child himself.

“I’m okay,” Astis says. “I’ve been living on my own for a long time now, and my apartment is a lot nicer than what I’m used to.”

Your hands slow a little, and you try to keep your sigh quiet. No one ever seems to climb Mt. Ebott for happy reasons. You don’t know what you were expecting, really.

“Besides, working at the restaurant is a lot of fun!” he goes on. “I’ve cooked for other people before, but I’ve never had a job, so I was nervous at first, but everyone there is really nice and Mr. Mettaton is a fun boss.”

“Is he, now?” You close the cabinet in front of you and move on to the next. “I’m glad. I can only really handle his attention in small doses, so it’s a relief that he’s not too much for you.”

Astis laughs a little. It’s a nice sound, husky and quiet. “Well, whenever things _do_ get to be a little much, I can just work on preparing ingredients until it stops being so overwhelming anymore. And it’s nice to have somewhere to go back to, even if I’m not really used to it yet. It’s so weird to have a whole _place_ that’s mine.”

You shake your head, squinting into the cabinet. Still no teapot. At least once you find it today, you’ll be able to remember where it is—unless things get shifted about a lot in here. But it’s the castle kitchen, so that’s not likely, is it? There are a lot of people who use this, so having things in different places all the time would just be confusing for everyone.

“The underground’s a bit small for moving around a lot, if you would have preferred that, unfortunately,” you say aloud. “But I’m glad that you’re settling in well enough to get on with. If anything ever comes up, please talk to someone. It doesn’t have to be me or Asriel if you’re uncomfortable with that—it can be Mettaton or your coworkers or neighbors. But monsters—and the other fallen humans, for that matter—are good people, so someone will be able to help you, or will be able to point you towards someone who can.”

“I’ll remember,” says Astis. A pause, and some scraping. “Is this the right one?”

You turn and close the cabinet you were looking into. He’s holding a teapot out at you, nonchalant.

“Yes,” you say, and consider for a moment asking him to go set it down by the sink so that you can fill it. But you also think about Prase’s arms around you, and Rufus helping you stretch, and Innig handing you things from shelves higher than you can reach, and Liron agreeing to help you and Asriel come up with things for the wedding. You hold your breath as you take the step closer to Astis and accept the teapot directly. “Thank you,” you tell him, and he beams at you.

He sits at one of the benches and waits while you fill the pot with water and set it on the range to boil, seeming perfectly at ease with himself whenever you peek over your shoulder at him.

You warn him when you bring him his teacup that it’s hot; Astis just nods and leans in a little to inhale the steam with mostly-closed eyes. “Smells nice,” he says.

“I’ll make you something proper some other time,” you promise. “My hands are a bit unsteady for looseleaf, this morning.”

“That’s okay,” Astis tells you. “I’m not picky.”

You set the dishes you’ve used in the sink and go to sit nearly across from him, just one seat to the side. You’re still close enough for politeness’ sake and to have conversation, and to not seem like you’re deliberately creating distance, but you’re far enough away for your nerves.

“This really is a good kitchen,” he muses. “I like all kitchens, even the messy ones, but this one is—warm, somehow, like there’s been a lot of love here. A lot of good energy. It feels like a nice place, if you know what I mean.”

“I do, a little,” you say. “That’s what our kitchen feels like—not that I’m in there for much besides making tea and washing dishes. I don’t really trust myself to make food; it’s always been my partner and my foster parents who cook. Maybe I’m a bit less than qualified to speak on it, thinking of it like that. It’s not as though I’ve never wanted to learn.” You did want to learn very much, long ago, wanting to emulate Mikage. It’s just that after what you did to Asgore, whenever anyone’s stood you in front of proper ingredients nowadays your stomach drops out of your body and your mind follows it very very far away, until Asriel (or Prase, in a pinch) can come ground and gentle you.

“Making tea and washing dishes are important jobs too,” Astis says, almost too gentle, like he’s not eleven and you’re not thirty, and you’ve told him a lot more than you meant to in those scant words.

“I suppose I’ll have to defer to your expertise,” you tell him, mild, eyebrows upraised, and he snorts and laughs, and you grin too. “I must admit—you keep reminding me of my favorite book. It is disgustingly endearing and I will have to ask you to stop immediately if you don’t want me to get attached.”

Astis finishes his sip and smiles at you. “What kind of book?”

“It’s called _Kitchen,”_ you explain. “Contemporary Japanese literature—maybe not ‘contemporary’ anymore, it was written at the end of the 1980s and it’s the 2030s now, but I don’t know what they’re calling that particular literary period on the surface anymore. It’s about a woman who loses her family and finds something like another one but different, and her relationships with cooking and death. I have a copy, you know, that Asriel found for me. It’s short—if you want to come over sometime and read it, that can be arranged.”

His eyebrows come down just a little bit and he folds his lower lip between his teeth, like he’s considering. “I,” he says at last, hesitant: “I’m not very… good at reading.”

“Oh?” you say, with a neutrality that sounds much, much less deliberate than it is.

Astis nods like he’s ashamed. “At least—not English. My _abuela,_ she taught me Spanish—reading, writing. My mother was teaching me English but then we got separated and it was… a long time ago. I can make out… what I need to. Not everything, not enough for a book for grown-ups.”

You nod, drink this in like you’d savor Asgore’s tea. “How about this, then,” you say. “If you’d still like to know the story, you can come over or we can find a place to meet and I’ll read it to you. And if you want someone to pick up where your family left off, we can speak to my foster mother about that. She loves to teach, and even if she can’t do it herself she’ll find you someone who can. You don’t have to decide right away, of course, but keep it in mind, all right?”

He watches you steadily as you speak—nods, at last, this smile slower, his dark eyes unfaltering under his dark curls. “Thank you very much,” he says. He sounds sure. “I’ll think about it.”

 

 

After parting ways with Astis, you return home in time to take your meds and eat breakfast, and your day is drawn into the usual whirlwind of activity it is when you’re the personal bodyguard of the King of all monsters rather than the Prince. Asriel has a meeting to attend, paperwork to do, followup visits to make to check up on conflicts he resolved recently; you’re glad that he managed to delegate that elementary school visit to his father, because after all that standing and walking your knees ache like hell.

Nearly a decade ago, back when you first started following Asriel everywhere as his honor guard, you mostly observed and kept quiet. Toriel was teaching you deportment and bringing you up to speed with logistics and political science as quickly as she could, so you did know how to speak up without embarrassing yourself, and understood what Asriel was doing well enough to venture your opinion if you felt it necessary. But the newness of your role and your inexperience made you shy, and you kept your comments private to share with Asriel later, speaking only if you were called upon.

But over the past five years, as monsters grew more and more accustomed to the idea that you would eventually be Asriel’s official consort, you very slowly began taking a more active role in the proceedings. You’re better with the theory and debate side of things than the PR, although you do practice with Mettaton so that you won’t turn into such a deer in headlights anymore when happenstance actually does put you on the spot; Asriel’s charismatic and good at public speaking like his father, sincere and charming, so he doesn’t often need your help there anyway.

He does, however, occasionally need someone ruthless to assert his needs or common sense when he’s feeling too pressured to. And he does need your slightly more removed perspective from time to time. When that’s necessary, you speak up now. You’re not as brave as Rufus, as patient as Prase, as honest as Innig, or as dogged as Liron. But you _do_ have one sure asset—your willpower. With Asriel’s compassion and your determination, you think that one day you may be able to measure up to the teamwork that Asgore and Toriel have always shown as the leaders of the underground.

It’s draining, it really is. But you feel like you’re really helping, like your presence matters, and that makes you happy.

Late afternoon sees you and Asriel camped out in the back of Gerson’s house, in the little miniature library that Liron has put together. Innig is out doing evening practice with the rest of the Royal Guard and Gerson himself is manning the storefront, but you and Asriel relax here now rather than New Home when you have the downtime because you need to pick Liron’s brain.

It’s been five years, after all—Asgore and Toriel have all but faded into the background when it comes to politics, and Asriel isn’t completely overwhelmed with kingship anymore. His parents are ready to retire for real, and you’re as ready as you’re ever going to be to step up to take their place, and you have the time and the gold to devote to a wedding ceremony. That means that it’s time now for you and Asriel to finally, _finally_ be married.

That also means there’s planning to do. Once you and Asriel began discussing practicalities, he told you straight off that he wanted to incorporate as many human traditions you wanted to have into the ceremony itself—any and all links to your culture, anything you thought was worth keeping and taking as your own. It would appeal to the public to have the ceremony itself be a marriage of monster and human traditions, of course, but—he took your hands as he said this, and leaned in to press his soft nose to your cheek—he wanted you to be happy and comfortable, too. Anything you wanted, anything that was doable, you could use.

“Or we could just have a monster wedding, if that’d make you happier,” he had said. “Whatever you want, Chara.”

You had frowned, and he pulled back and opened his mouth as if to speak, but you leaned in to kiss him—just a quick press of your lips against where his fur gives way to skin—to quiet him.

“There _are_ parts of my heritage—my human heritage—that I still find valuable,” you explained slowly, when you pulled away. “But I—mm. I grew up very divorced from them because of my circumstances. We weren’t the dominant culture, and… that won’t make any sense to you, will it.”

Asriel smiled a little, helpless. “No, I don’t really understand this stuff,” he said. “But I can try, and I can respect it even if I can’t get my head around it.”

“I appreciate that,” you told him. “But I’ve never been to a—a real Jewish wedding. I know next to nothing about them, let alone what could be incorporated.”

“Why not ask the other humans?” he’d said, which surprised you. “I don’t know how much they’d know, of course. But all the same, it’s too early to give up. If it’s something that you would want…”

“It is,” you told him. You talked to him back when you’d explained the holidays that you could celebrate alone about some of your mythologized history—about coming from a culture of survival in the face of insurmountable odds, in the face of oppression, of hatred and violence and slaughter and abuse. Your mother wasn’t determined enough to hold onto it, or she deliberately chose your father instead. But you were. You are, still. Blood and belief, cut off from it as you are, it’s still a part of you.

Prase does not have any firm religious beliefs at all; Innig and Rufus are Christian, and Rufus not even pious. You don’t know Astis well enough to know what he believes in, if anything.

But as for Liron… Ze’s quiet about hir own spiritual beliefs, though you know they’re very different from yours and the other humans’. But ze still shocked you when you sat down with the other fallen humans to ask by volunteering that ze might be able to help.

“The orphanage I lived at as a kid—the caretakers taught us a few things about all the Abrahamic traditions,” ze explained, pushing hir glasses up. Hir voice still cracks some, nowadays, but it’s deepened significantly; ze looks bored as often as ze looks spacey nowadays, slouchy zit-faced teen that ze is, but hir attention is iron once you can get it. “Christianity and Islam were both pretty in one ear and out the other. But my paperwork says I’m half Israeli, so when they talked about Judaism I paid attention. The religion wasn’t really for me, when I learned about it. But it’s still something relevant to me. One of the things that makes up my existence and why I’m here. So I thought it would be worth learning. Can’t promise my memory will be perfect, but I’ve probably got some books. We should be able to work something out.”

So here you are, and here Asriel is, and here’s Liron: Consulting old reference books in which you and your people are little more than a footnote, comparing what can be gleaned there to what Liron was taught and the handful of things you’ve retained from early childhood.

It’s been a lot more fun than you were anticipating, between the vague murky resentment that someone who doesn’t even share your beliefs knows more about them than you do and the anxiety that comes par for the course when you’re interacting with someone you still don’t know very well. Asriel deserves a lot of the credit for that, you think; Jewish weddings are about as gendered as most other human ones, and monster ones aren’t, so he’s kept the two of you divvying up the bride’s part and the groom’s in whatever ways seem more fun for you both while Liron quietly notes your decisions down.

(“I’m going to break the glass,” was your first demand—more than a little manic, pitched with anxious energy.

“Chara,” Asriel said gently, hands held up, pacifying, “you’re the only one who _can_ break the glass. You’ll be wearing shoes. I might get glass stuck in my foot if I tried.”

“Don’t care,” you went on, grinning. “If we have to smash something, I call dibs on the smashing.”

“Okay,” Asriel told you, smiling back. Liron averted hir eyes in the background, patient or bored.

It got easier, after that.)

But _this._

“Seven blessings,” you repeat, squinting down at the page of the open book. Asriel’s squinting at it too, from where he sits at the table—you should’ve nagged him into bringing his reading glasses along, he keeps accidentally-on-purpose forgetting them, even when he might need the things. “Seven blessings. What does that mean? Dammit, that wording is so vague, what does it even _mean?”_

Liron shrugs, hir bony shoulders pulling at the fabric of hir gray sweater. You knit it for hir, as a gift, because if you’re going to stress knit anyway you’d rather make something useful for somebody instead of just churning out potholders, so you keep tabs on your whole social circle’s measurements. You’re working on one for Alphys, now; Asgore is next, then Toriel, then Gaster should be on the list after her. “Not sure. I’ve only been to funerals in person, remember, never weddings. But it says you can have a rabbi or the guests do them, so it’s probably another ritual blessing.”

You rock back in your seat and curse, wholeheartedly. Monsters barely even have religion at all, let alone convenient rabbis who will know the words to a blessing that the author of this book didn’t bother to write down for the sake of Jews in exile to learn because no one was there to teach them. Some things you don’t care about throwing out—little bits of tradition that sound both unappealing and whose original meanings have anyways been lost. But this sounds important, and you’re childishly frustrated that you can’t even have the luxury of being informed enough to make a real judgment call.

“Hm,” says Asriel.

 _“What,”_ you say, leaning back further as you whine.

“How about a compromise?” he proposes.

“I’m listening,” you tell him, because you are.

Your fiancé good-naturedly ignores your sulky tone. “At monster weddings we usually have each partner at the ceremony decide on a guest to give a speech after the marriage vows,” he supplies. “Instead of each of us picking one, how about we get seven, to stand in for the blessings? It won’t be religious, of course, but they will still be blessing us. And it’s a pretty big honor, so it seems like it will fit as a sort of kind of replacement, but what do you think?”

You sit back up, let your gaze flick helplessly back to Liron, heart sinking in your chest anyway at the reality that you have to run everything past hir first. Ze shrugs again and gives you a lazy thumbs up. You sigh.

“That doesn’t sound bad at all,” you relent, just a little. “It’s just—how would we pick seven people? Do we just… choose whomever?”

“For monster weddings it’s usually someone that at one or both or all of the people getting married know well. A close friend or a family member. We’ve got a lot of people who fit that definition, it’s just a matter of picking. What do _you_ say, Liron?”

Ze shrugs for the third time. “Not that fond of public speaking.”

“Okay, we won’t pick you, but I mean as a way to meet in the middle? It’s not too disrespectful, is it?”

Liron examines hir nails. “Isn’t that up to you?” ze says at last. “I’m not the one getting married.”

“That’s true,” Asriel says, leaning back. “I guess we don’t have to decide right away. Just to give them enough time to come up with something to say, and to give ourselves time to pick someone different if they tell us no.”

“I suppose,” you agree. “It does sound like a good idea. I’ll think on it.”

 

 

Later that night, your head and shoulders on Asriel’s lap as he flips through paperwork, you get your phone out and text Prase.

_Are you still at work?_

Their answer comes in only a few minutes: _no, just got home a couple hrs ago w/sans_

You shift. Asriel inhales slow and deep beneath you, then sighs. His chest and belly expand as he does, grazing your upper arm and then sinking away.

 _Would it be too late for me to come over?_ you type back. _I’ve got something to ask that I think would go better in person, but it’s already evening, I can wait if it’s inconvenient_

Another pause, this one much briefer. _no it’s ok if you want to come over now? tomorrow’s gonna be an early start and i’ll prob be at the lab until rly late. building big dt extractors is super fiddly who knew_

 _Do you need to rest?_ you text them, frowning.

_not for another couple hours, the initial dt extraction tests were way worse lol_

You make a face at that. When Alphys and Gaster first isolated DT two years ago and were experimenting with ways to use it, they’d asked for help from all the humans except for Liron (who’d been deemed too young) and you, because of your health issues. You have the highest DT levels of all the fallen humans, and so you’d tried to argue—Alphys and Gaster would have the most margin of error with you, in case they overdrew—but Toriel had gone over your head and vetoed it. Alphys you might have been able to persuade with enough effort, but unfortunately Gaster still took your foster mother’s word as law, never mind that she’s not queen anymore. It’s all in the past now, but you can’t help but be a little frustrated nonetheless.

_Then I’m coming over, but don’t hesitate to kick me out if you get tired, all right? And if you don’t look well I’m putting you to bed. Sans also =)_

_if you think you can beat our actual dad to it you’re welcome to try i guess lmao_

You shake your head at your phone. _I’ll text again when I’m almost there._

Prase just texts back _‘k_ and nothing else. You turn your phone off and stick it in your pocket.

“I’m going out for a bit,” you announce to Asriel as you sit up. He settles his papers on his lap and regards you curiously, pushing his reading glasses up on his snout in a gesture exactly the same as his mother’s. “I’m going to see Prase about wedding things. I should be back in a few hours, but don’t feel obligated to wait up for me if you’re too tired. I know today’s been a busy one for you, too.”

“I’ll wait up,” Asriel promises, and his words are so tender and his eyes so filled with love that it sparks a hot wellspring of wanting in you, a shower of light all up your spine. He shifts the papers off to the side of the bed and reaches out to cradle your face in one hand. “I’ll wait up as long as I need to.”

“I won’t be _that_ late,” you protest, reaching up to cup the back of his hand with your palm. “But seriously, go to bed if you’re tired.”

You reach out, and either he leans in or he allows you to draw him down to kiss you. The end result is his free arm supporting you at the small of your back and his tongue tracing yours, your heartbeat urgent against your ribs and that shower of light metamorphosing into sunbursts, making you shiver. The hard weight of your phone in your pocket is the only thing reminding you that you have obligations and that you can’t just shuck off your clothes and wheedle Asriel out of his too. He has paperwork to finish, anyway.

All the same, you make a forlorn noise into his mouth before you ease away. Your vision’s blurry, but Asriel’s eyes are unfocused too, and he’s panting a little the same way you are.

“Come home before midnight,” he says, tracing your flushed lips with the pad of his thumb. You tamp down on the urge to whine and let yourself sprawl limp across the mattress. “I think I can make it worth your while if you do.”

You take a deep breath to try to gather your composure. “Somebody’s persuasive.”

He grins and snickers, and you push him away.

 

 

You bring a jacket along with you when you leave: The Gasters moved out to Snowdin when the doctor himself finally retired, and you’ve learned to your displeasure that unless you take measures against the cold, your wrists and ankles sometimes rebel against you the next day.

It’s a quick trip down to the Riverperson’s ferry when you take the elevators. You request your destination from them and sit in the boat, listening to their nonsense songs quietly as it skims over the river water. You pull the jacket on as you approach the end of the Waterfall tunnel, and send Prase a message for good measure.

And from the Riverperson’s stop, it’s only a short walk to where Prase and their family now live. The house is two stories tall and has a shed next to it; the roofs of both are coated in a thick layer of snow somehow, despite that you never seem to actually see it falling in Snowdin. (You miss being able to watch it fall, a little—wistful, hazy memories. But you still would never trade the safety of the underground for being able to look at the weather.)

There’s a wreath on the door, you note as you approach. It’s not decorated in obnoxious red ribbons or wrapped in fairy lights or anything, but you still roll your eyes before you let yourself in.

The first thing you notice upon entering the Gaster residence is that the television’s on, switched to Mettaton’s show with the volume turned way down. Sans is slouched on the sofa, snoring lightly, his stomach rising and falling with his breath—you could never accuse skeleton magibiology of making sense. He hasn’t even changed out of his lab coat, you realize, though he’s at least taken his shoes off, leaving his bare bony feet barely grazing the floor. No one else is in sight, though, and you look around uneasily as you lightly tap the toes of your sneakers on the welcome mat to kick the snow off.

The door to Sans’ room up on the right-hand side of the second floor balcony opens, then, and Prase walks out. You relax.

“Sorry,” they say. “I was picking up Sans’ room for him.”

You shoot him another glance. “He’s not cleaning?”

Prase makes a face as they descend the stairs. “Lately he’s been blowing all his energy on work and not saving any spoons for anything else. It’ll get better when he’s feeling better, but I wish he’d learn to budget so that the bad days aren’t so much of a mess.”

You make a face too. Five or ten years ago, you would never have pegged Sans for the type to develop depression—he’s always been so cheerful and silly and energetic—but sometimes these things just come down to unfortunate combinations of brain chemistry instead of trauma like yours, and illness has crept up on Sans and weighed him down over the past year and a half. His family takes care of him when he can’t take care of himself, and you expect he’ll handle things a little better when he’s got healthier ways to cope, but it’s never a happy thing to see one of your friends so miserable.

Once Prase has reached the ground floor, you make your way across the living room to meet them in the middle, stepping into the circle of their arms and closing your eyes. Prase is sturdy where they stand, comfortable to lean into; they hold you gently and quietly, and you can actually fit your arms around them fully in return, unlike with Asriel. They’re wearing their hair a little past their shoulders now—it’s the closest they’ve had their hair to the style it was when you first met them in a long time.

“Dad’s helping Papyrus with his homework,” they say conversationally when the two of you step apart to stand forearm’s length away from one another. “We may as well go up to my room so we don’t bother anyone.”

You nod, and follow them.

The first floor of the Gasters’ house is taken up by the living room, kitchen, and Gaster himself’s room; Papyrus and Sans’ bedrooms are on the second floor, and Prase converted the attic to serve as their bedroom. The ceiling is slanted on either side, giving the space a bit of a cramped impression, but they’ve also managed to duplicate their room in their old house in New Home as closely as they can—the long low bed, the bookshelves filled mostly with battered old science fiction paperbacks and textbooks, the desk with their computer, their dressers and few knickknacks.

Stability is important to Prase—something they’ve talked about with you just a little, because there will always be parts of both your histories on the surface that are too painful to put into words, no matter how long it’s been. They spent a long time in the foster system before they finally decided enough was enough and climbed the mountain. As a result of that, sudden upheavals, especially in the context of their living situation, will likely always make them uncomfortable. Keeping their environment as consistent and permanent as possible helps them maintain their mental equilibrium.

You cross the room and sprawl across their bed without waiting for an invitation, your back to the small circular window next to it and its open shutters. Prase goes to sit in their desk chair, unbothered.

“So what did you want to talk about?” they prompt you, leaning across the desk to prop their face on a hand.

You balance your ankle on your opposite knee. “Asriel and I are still working out wedding ceremony details,” you explain. “But one thing we’ve—more or less decided on, I think?—is that we’re going to have seven friends and family members bless us. I’d… like to ask you to be one of them.”

Prase raises their eyebrows very slightly. “Are you sure?” they ask at length.

You raise your eyebrows back at them. “Why wouldn’t I be? You’re my best friend.”

They just look at you. “Chara, you know Asriel and I don’t like each other very much. Do you really want to give me a soapbox at your wedding? Do you really have that much faith that I won’t use the opportunity to drag him?”

You snort. “I do, because you’re very fair, and Asriel hasn’t done anything to merit getting dragged in years and years.”

They shrug and smile thinly, their gaze sliding past you and in the direction of the window, which you guess is the indoors-and-attic version of staring off into the horizon. “I suppose he _has_ kept his fuzzy nose more or less clean for the past nine years,” they say in a tone so light it’s hard for you to tell whether they’re serious or joking.

“You’re so ready to leap in to defend my honor.”

“Give me a reason and the opportune moment and I’ll do it,” they tell you, nodding. You don’t think they’re joking this time. “But no, I won’t drag him at your wedding unless he suddenly decides to be completely horrible again. I don’t think I’m ever going to like your fiancé, but it’s been a good few years since I’ve actively _dis_ liked him. If you still want me to be one of your seven despite all of that, then yes, I’ll do it. I’m sure I can come up with something appropriate—you’re my best friend, and I want good things for you.”

It is possible that you may be blushing. “Thank you,” you tell them, once you’re sure that your voice will obey you. “It—means a lot to me that you’re willing to do this for me.”

“You’re welcome,” Prase says. They sit up and stretch, opening their desk drawer and taking their old toy knife out so that they can chew on the tip thoughtfully. You lie still and watch them at it—you’re considering just closing your eyes when they turn to you again, sudden enough to make your heart jolt in your chest. “I’ve told you about what’s been stressing _me_ out earlier,” they say. “What about you, Chara? You look… a little tired.”

“Maybe,” you admit. “There’s nothing I can do about it, so I don’t think there’s much point to being petty, but it annoys me just a bit that I have to keep going to Liron to learn about these things. Ze’s not even really…”

You stop yourself before you can get worked up, and try to let your built-up steam go as you sigh. Prase sets their knife down on the table and comes to sit next to you on the bed.

“I feel fake,” you say, covering your face. “I don’t even have the right calendar to celebrate anything at the right time, there are only three holidays that I _can_ celebrate by myself, and my mother stopped teaching me _anything_ when I was a child. I’ve never known anyone else who’s Jewish. I didn’t grow up in a big community, I’ve never gone to temple, I got yelled at for trying to look up the Torah at the school library because it wasn’t a _religious establishment._ Never mind that all the teachers would make literally everything Christmas- or Easter-themed whenever it was that time of year.”

“You’re not fake,” Prase tells you, quiet but firm. “Your faith and your culture are important to you, and it was very strong of you to hold on to it in the face of all that pressure to give it up and assimilate.”

“It wasn’t strong,” you say, defeated, already starting to smile because you don’t know what other face to make. “It was foolish. I was old enough to know it made me a target. Kids carved slurs into my desk, and _I_ would get in trouble for it. They’d chase me around at recess, calling me—things I can’t even stand to repeat now.” You giggle a little, mirthless. “I was foolish enough, too, to try talking to my mother about—about not being a girl, so that was when my parents started making me wear horrible dresses and hair bows to punish me. I still remember exactly how it _felt,_ Prase, I remember how the grass smelled and how my blood tasted, how it felt to get kicked and pinched over old bruises. They pulled my hair and lifted my skirts, and I—I knew I would get in _worse_ trouble for it, but I couldn’t stand it, so I fought back. The other kids’ parents would go on and on about me. I heard the messages on our answering machine. Heathen, devil, demon. That’s what my father called me, too, when he—”

 _“Stop,”_ Prase says, loud enough to drown out your voice. They take your hands gently. “You’re not there anymore, Chara. You’re safe, the only humans in this place are your friends, and neither we nor the monsters will ever hurt you like that. You’re okay. It was a long time ago.” They squeeze your fingers a little, squishing your fingertips between theirs, and the heady scent of almost-summer lawn and the horrible phantom sensation of scratchy ruffles and frills recede enough for you to breathe. “Don’t chase the rabbit.”

You giggle again, wetly this time. “Are you _ever_ going to stop making horribly outdated pop culture references.”

“Not until I come across a movie I like better than Pacific Rim, so probably never,” Prase answers. They coax you upright, holding you at arm’s length and waiting. You realize that they’re giving you space in case full-body contact will make you feel worse, and summarily you sink into their soft chest, wedging your forehead against their shoulder. They stroke your back, gentle, and if you sob a little, they don’t say a word.

 _“Anyway,”_ you say when you have a little more control over yourself. “What I meant to say before I got—distracted, was. I bled for this. I suffered for this. But I’m still never going to feel Jewish enough. Not enough to satisfy me. Hate it. It’s not fair to hold it against Liron, but I just get—very angry sometimes.”

“That’s okay,” Prase says, still stroking your back. “And you’re definitely Jewish enough. If anyone starts saying that you’re not, I’ll let Rufus know so that he can punch them in the teeth. Innig and Undyne will probably help.”

You laugh. “Thank you.”

“What are friends for?” they say, tone just as light as it was years ago when they threatened to give you your meds mouth to mouth. You have no idea what you ever did to deserve them.

The two of you sit there quietly for several minutes more, and then you sigh and push yourself upright again, wiping your face. “I should go home. Asriel’s waiting for me.”

There’s a little furrow between Prase’s eyebrows as they stare you down. “Will you be alright going alone? Should I go with you?”

You shake your head, making a face. “It’s fine. It’s not far to the Riverperson’s boat, and you had a long day. You need to rest.”

“That is true,” they say, but they fold their arms. “I’ll have Dad go with you instead, then. _He’s_ not tired out from working all day, and I don’t want you wandering around by yourself.”

They’re probably right, so you relent where otherwise you might have made a show of protesting. Prase leads you back downstairs—Sans, you can see from the balcony, is still snoring on the sofa—and into Papyrus’ room, where they explain the situation to their foster father in rapid, abbreviated sign. Papyrus himself doesn’t pay attention, but he must notice the badly wiped-away tear tracks on your face, because he insists on giving you a hug.

You’re grateful for Gaster’s hand on your shoulder, when you leave. Snowdin’s decorations will always look too much like Christmas to you for comfort, and you’re too raw right now to just sigh and ignore it. As long as you have Gaster guiding you, you can get away with looking at your feet.

He insists on riding the ferry with you, too—where you might have just stared into space the whole trip, dissociative, he leads you through all the little sign games that Prase taught you when you were kids working on vocabulary building.

Much to your surprise, Asriel is there at the Hotland stop waiting for you. He gets to his feet as soon as the boat drifts to a stop, reaching out to help you onto the shore.

“Prase texted me,” he says before you can ask, bending slightly to peer into your face. “Come on, let’s get you home.” He straightens up as he puts his arms around you. “Thank you for staying with them.”

Whatever response Gaster makes, you’re too busy closing your eyes and pressing your cheek into Asriel’s chest to see it. By the next time you open your eyes, he and the Riverperson have already left.

“I can carry you if you want,” Asriel offers, soft and low.

You shrug a little, grimacing. “Not all the way,” you tell him. “But up the stairs is fine.”

“Whatever you’d feel better with,” he says, and scoops you up so that you can head over to the elevators that will take you home.

You concentrate on him the whole way. The journey passes in still frames, in heartbeats, in Asriel’s fur soft and comforting beneath your oversensitive palms.

Changing into your pajamas, you feel old in your skin in a way you rarely experience. It’s just the usual mood crash, nothing out of the ordinary, but you can’t wait to sleep it off.

It’s only once you’re curled into Asriel’s front in bed with the lights off that you remember your promise when you left for Prase’s, and you swear softly.

“Chara?” Asriel asks. He’s probably frowning at you, but your eyes haven’t adjusted yet and it’s still much too dark for you to see.

“I’m sorry,” you tell him. “We had plans, but now…”

“It’s okay,” he soothes, big hands soft and gentle along your back. “There’s always tomorrow. You’re still really shaky, I don’t want to push you if you’re not feeling up to it right now.”

You want to tell him not to mind all that and that you still want to have sex with him, but—he’s right, and all those awful memories are still thrumming beneath the surface of your conscious mind. You don’t want to panic or go to pieces halfway through; it would be embarrassing, and distressing for both of you besides.

But at this rate, you’ll go to sleep with all that old mess on your mind and wind up with nightmares. If lovemaking isn’t available to distract you, then…

“Ree,” you say.

“Mm?”

You roll over to press your back up against his chest and belly, leaning your head down to kiss his big warm palms. “Tell me a God of Hyperdeath story.”

“Huh?”

“One where he beats up all the bad guys and saves the day,” you say firmly, pausing to kiss his thumbs. “One with a happy ending.”

He’s quiet for a moment. Then there’s a shift of fur against fabric, and he leans down to press his mouth to the crown of your head and nuzzle the nape of your neck. “Okay, Chara.”

You close your eyes and wait for him to begin.

 

 

On Friday, you use the open floor space in the bedroom to stretch out and limber up before you get dressed, and you stop by the kitchen to pick up the neatly wrapped-up boxes you and Asriel packed the previous night. Only then do you go on to exit the living room and head towards the castle’s main kitchen.

You make it there first, so you’re free to hunt down the tea equipment and get all your materials for looseleaf out and set up before Astis arrives.

“Good morning,” he says, a little shy.

“Good morning,” you reply, and smile at him. “I’m making proper looseleaf today, and my partner sent me with breakfast for us both. It might be a little bit presumptuous of us, but—”

You don’t even bother to finish your sentence, because Astis’ face has lit up like New Home had over Asriel’s coronation week. You set one of the boxes down in the chair next to yours, laughing.

“If there’s anything in there that you can’t eat, let me know,” you tell him. “Asriel made sure to avoid most of the common allergens that we’re aware of, but if there’s something that you can’t stand the smell or texture of, make sure to mention that too. We know sensory issues vary from person to person.” Just look at yourself and Papyrus—he hates greasy food, but you like it; he can eat wet or melted cheese, but you can only stand the stuff when it’s dry or baked. “If there’s anything like that in there, you can trade it with something of mine.”

Astis opens the box lid, still giving off sparkles in anticipation. “That’s really thoughtful—a lot of people don’t consider that kind of thing when they’re making food for others.”

You shrug, self-deprecating. “I don’t think that we would have become this conscientious about it if I didn’t have dietary restrictions myself, alas. One of the other fallen humans has a few severe allergies, too.”

Astis looks up from breakfast to tilt his head slightly. “That’s… Liron, right? I’m still getting to know everyone.”

“Yes, that would be hir. And _I’m_ impressed that you’re that familiar with hir already.”

He shrugs and grins, all boyish charm; his eyes crinkle up. “I like to make people food, so I try to keep track of those things. Oh, but since you asked—I can eat just about everything. Lucky for me, too, since I couldn’t really afford to be picky when I lived by myself… I would’ve felt bad if I’d had to turn people down when they offered to share food with me or teach me how to cook new things.”

“I suppose.” There was generally something around the house that you were able to eat at all times, even if you had to sneak it out of the pantry in very small portions so that no one would notice, so you were able to avoid the things you can’t stand. You suppose that means you, too, were lucky in a way. “I’m glad that you had people to rely on, though.”

“It wasn’t all the time, but there were a lot of nice people out there who helped me.” Astis shrugs and turns to you. “Um—if it’s okay, can I make breakfast next time? I can bring food here, so… what can’t you eat?”

“Anything difficult to digest, like raw vegetables, or corrosive—spicy or sour—I can only eat in small portions. That, and snails.”

 _“Snails?”_ Astis repeats, fascinated.

You nod. “My foster mother loves them. Her snail pie is a bit of an acquired taste, but if you’re used to eating snails, I’d recommend it.”

He giggles. “I’m not, but now I kind of want to try them?”

“You might want to have someone else introduce you to escargot,” you say, spreading your hands helplessly. “Toriel can get a little overenthusiastic when it comes to her favorite food.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

You shake your head. “Anyway, it’s not as though I’m allergic to anything—I have sensory issues too, but the main problem is that I have a bit of a weak stomach. I… mm, I suppose that is to say my childhood illness was not kind to my digestive system.”

Astis’ dark eyes are thoughtful as he gazes at you. “You mean… the poison.”

Your chest jolts; you probably fail to hide your surprise. It’s too late to look away to compose yourself, so you just sigh. “I see that word travels as fast as ever.”

He averts his gaze. “I’m sorry. It’s just—I thought that you don’t have to try to hide it if it’s uncomfortable to. I heard some of the monsters at the hotel talking about it, so I asked my coworkers, and they told me. They’re all… I dunno if proud is the right word, but I think it means a lot to the monsters that you tried to sacrifice yourself for them. They love you a lot. Everyone seems really excited for you and the king to get married, and to have you as a ruler.”

Heat creeps into your face, your ears, and the back of your neck. “Monsters are just—kind,” you say helplessly. “It’s in their nature. They all still think much too highly of me. That—I had selfish motivations for it, too. What I did wasn’t admirable.”

When you turn back, Astis is looking at you again. “Maybe that’s one of the reasons they like you—because you say things like that.” Your expression must be very blank, because his eyebrows crease and he smiles. “I’m not making sense.”

He’s something like a third your age, so of course you’re not going to say, _you do make sense, I’m just having trouble believing it._ “I think I understand what you mean; don’t worry about it.”

Astis scratches his head. “Anyway, uh—can I try making food next time, though? There’s a lot of stuff I can make, depending on what you like. I can do toast, waffles, pancakes, flan, latkes—”

You sit up, and so does he, eyes wide in surprise.

“Astis,” you say very seriously, “you said latkes just now, didn’t you?”

He nods, uncertain at first—but whatever he sees in your face makes his expression brighten. “Yeah,” he says. “I know a couple different recipes, actually.”

“I haven’t eaten proper Jewish food since I was a very small child.” It’s supposed to come out controlled, a neutral statement, but the wistfulness is clear in your words. “May I impose?”

Astis’ grin is brilliant in his dark face. “Of course! I’d _love_ to make you some. Next time I’ll bring the potatoes and eggs.”

“Thank you.” Hopefully your smile isn’t too eager—you’re trying for your polite public face, but your fingers shake a little as you reach for your book. “I very much appreciate it.”

Astis settles in with his breakfast, watchful. His hands are big for an eleven-year-old’s; his utensils seem dwarfed in them.

“Now, I feel compelled to warn you, this book was written in the late 1980s,” you preface as you carefully flick through the table of contents. “So there’s quite a bit of the sort of casual cissexism that was typical back then. Just that it was _seen_ as acceptable does not mean that it actually _was_ acceptable, of course, but I do want you to have that warning before we start, in case you need it.”

Astis nods. “I’ll be okay, but it’s nice of you to think of that beforehand.”

“Also—this story is divided into two parts, so even if we get through the first half quickly, I believe I’d like to stop there. As much as I would like to sit around reading _Kitchen_ all day, I do have work, and so do you.”

“True,” Astis remarks.

You turn another page, flick your gaze to him briefly over the top of the book to make sure he’s paying attention, and clear your throat to begin.

“ _‘The place I like best in this world is the kitchen,’_ ” you read, clear, enunciated. You’re no Asriel when it comes to these things, but you’re well enough, and you’re determined to do your best, to do this story justice. “ _‘No matter where it is, no matter what kind, if it’s a kitchen, if it’s a place where they make food, it’s fine with me. Ideally it should be well broken in…’_ ”

 

 

It’s not so much that you’d been putting off fittings at the tailor’s as it is that you’d been avoiding the subject and waiting until Asriel brought it up. Even if you’d been dreading it just a little, you resolved to yourself that whenever he decided it was time for you to go, you would go and just have done with it. So when he tells you, after you get home and take your medicine and change into one of your nicer official-business outfits, that he’s cleared the afternoon for the sake of getting your outfits decided on, you just nod and say “Right” and tell yourself that at least you can get it over with now.

Your attention is all over the place, all morning. Asriel definitely notices—he shoots you concerned glances every time you’re pacing the castle halls, reaching out to hold your hand whenever you’re in transit. You don’t know if anyone else does, and Asriel waits until you’re back home eating lunch (or—until _he’s_ eating lunch, you mostly just pick at your own) to ask if you’re okay.

“I’m just a little bit nervous,” you say, shaking your head.

“Okay,” Asriel replies. “It’ll be alright. We’ll be together.”

You nod silently and go back to picking.

Asriel, like you, has never been to a wedding before, so it was Asgore you spoke with when you were asking about this particular aspect of monster customs. He, after all, once had a wedding ceremony himself.

Your foster father explained to you that there are a few ways in which attire for monster weddings varies from human ones. There’s no strict black and white (and pastel) color scheme for the betrothed—each is free to come wearing whatever colors they favor, although obviously things look better if there’s some sense of unity between your chosen colors and your partner or partners’. Close friends and relatives who are attending in support of a particular person will wear one or more of their colors, often in a lighter or pastel shade than the actual wedding outfit. Other wedding guests will wear white. Asgore also explained then that during your and Asriel’s wedding, both he and Toriel will be wearing neutral white robes, rather than choosing to favor one of you. They’re Asriel’s parents by blood, but they’ve raised you and love you just the same.

He also explained to you that traditional wedding garb for monsters who are getting married is robes, as long as they have a body shape that can fit into them.

Therein lies the source of your anxiety. If monsters are supposed to wear robes, humans with bodies like yours are supposed to wear dresses, and the only other traditional option for humans—suits—still feels too masculine for comfort, just what are you supposed to do?

You do have to decide, though, so that your friends will be able to get _their_ outfits ready on time, instead of running to buy or tailor new clothes three days before the ceremony. This isn’t like Asriel’s coronation, where anything not in the royal colors would do as long as it was formalwear.

Asriel watches you shred a piece of lettuce between your fingertips and then brush the shreds into a neat pile without making any move to eat them, and reaches across the table to rest a gentle hand on your shoulder.

“Do you want to just go now and get it over with?” he asks, soft. “Tonight’s anime night. We can eat plenty whenever we get there.”

You wipe your hands on your slacks and grab Asriel’s hand in both of yours, leaning into his forearm as you nod.

(He holds your hand the whole way there.)

The tailors you go to are the same ones who designed and made both of your costumes for Asriel’s coronation—what still serve as his best formal robes and your nicest, most professional outfit. Like most monsters, they don’t particularly understand your hesitation to wear certain kinds of clothing, but they’re aware of it, and the last time you worked with them they were respectful, too—they worked with you patiently to come up with something that you would be able to wear comfortably.

You and Asriel are met with brisk and friendly greetings from the staff when you arrive, and are whisked to sit down at the drafting table with the master tailor. They’re the one who measured the both of you last time, and who worked most closely with Asriel’s robes; they’re a charismatic monster about half a head taller than you with long noodly arms that seem to be all joint, much like snakes, or like Mettaton’s arms, though they can’t extend or retract at will. It took you a little while to get used to how they move, but now you like to watch them measure and handle things.

“Where would the two of you like to start?” they prompt.

Asriel turns to see you staring helplessly at him and shrugs. “Why not from color schemes? The sooner we get those decided on, the sooner the other guests can pick their outfits, after all.”

The tailor nods. “Do you have any ideas, then?”

You take a breath. “Once Asriel and I are married, I’ll have to wear the royal colors for most of my formal appearances, even if I’ll still be able to wear whatever I like in my downtime. So I think I would prefer to wear my own green again, just this last time.”

The tailor nods again, smiling as they reel in a notebook and pen from the side of the table. “Your usual shade—so, whatever accessories ought to be gold?”

You nod, grinning a little. “And depending on what we do with the rest of the outfit, maybe red shoes this time…? They’ll look atrocious against the royal purple and blue; this might be the last time I get to enjoy them.”

Asriel rolls his eyes and chuckles from beside you. “Isn’t that the whole reason you refused to wear my colors to my coronation too, that they wouldn’t go with your knife?”

“My knife is _important,”_ you inform him, very lightly smacking him on the bicep, which just makes him laugh harder. “What about you? Are there colors you want to wear?”

“Hmm,” he says thoughtfully. “Now that I think of it, this might actually be my only chance to not wear the royal colors for a while. I still want to wear blue, but—a lighter blue, maybe? Hmmm. Chara’s kinda gonna be dressed in garden colors, so it would be fun to wear sky colors so that we can still sort of match.”

You elbow him a little, starting to grin. “Are we going to theme this as the marriage of heaven and earth or something?”

 _“Chara,”_ Asriel exclaims, maybe about half scandalized and half delighted.

“They might be on to something there, Majesty,” the tailor says—they’re actually writing it down, to your amusement. “This is already a marriage of monster and human, and you like your star patterns well enough that the people already associate you with sky imagery. Blue and green, with silver and gold accents, is a nice harmonious palette to work with, too.”

Your face feels hot as you think of it. Honestly, you were joking, but now that the tailor has framed it like that… it sounds a bit romantic.

“What sort of outfits were you thinking of wearing, then?” the tailor asks, and you fight the urge to squirm.

“I want to wear something a little lighter than a robe,” Asriel says. “A bit more like a dress—not quite _exactly_ like the wedding dresses humans wear in pictures, but sort of light and airy, like they look. If we want to do this heaven and earth thing, it’ll have to be some sort of sky blue, but… I’m kind of torn between wanting a night sky motif or a day one.”

“You can have both,” the tailor suggests, sketching. “An inner dress layer with a midday sky pattern, and a light overcoat or mantle with stars—perhaps with golden trim. The clothing itself will be simple; we can let the patterns take center stage instead of loading everything down with decorations.”

You watch quietly as they debate mantle vs overcoat for a few minutes, passionately discussing the shape and size of the clasp it ought to have, as the front will need to be open to show off Asriel’s dress beneath the top layer. Despite your own nervousness, you can’t help but smile as they pin down details one by one, and a single black-ink sketch remains in the middle of the tailor’s page as they cross out the others, filling in details here and there. Honestly, it sounds a little bit dorky to you, but Asriel is positively breathtaking in his starry capelet from the last time; you have no doubt that the finished product will look beautiful, however the tailors decide to do it.

“And what about you?” the tailor asks at last. You startle guiltily in your seat, your pulse starting to race again. “Chara, do you have any ideas for your own clothes?”

You open your mouth. “I,” you say, and then your mind goes blank. The half-formed thoughts you had freeze in your throat, and won’t come out.

“Chara,” Asriel murmurs, low and concerned. You hang your head and stare at the table. You’re probably crimson with shame.

“I—I’m sorry,” you mumble. God, but you wish your talk with Prase hadn’t triggered those flashbacks, because there’s summer heat on your face and the backs of your hands and arms, covered though they are with your sleeves. You can smell grass; you can hear cruel children’s voices. You grab Asriel’s arm and knead the fabric of his sleeve between your fingers and palm, trying to ground yourself with its smooth texture. “I—I want to look proper and beautiful enough to be—to be a good match for Asriel. I want to look _impressive._ But I don’t know if I could handle wearing a dress. I couldn’t take feeling so _exposed.”_

Asriel reaches out and runs his fingertips over your cheek. His pads are just rough enough on your face that it jolts you back to reality, and you try to breathe properly.

“D’you think it might work if you could wear pants underneath a dress or a robe?”

Your hearing goes funny for a moment, and you lift your head to blink blankly at him. “Is that— _allowed?”_ you ask, turning from him to the tailor and back.

Both of them nod. “It isn’t as though they’ll show underneath a skirt,” the tailor says kindly. “If you would prefer the look of a dress or robe, and wearing pants would make you feel safer and more comfortable, that is a very easy thing to do.”

You just stare, unbelieving. “My—my mother hit me across the side of the head with an empty glass bottle for wearing gym shorts to school under my dress the one time I tried it,” you say, your voice absolutely flat. “My ear wouldn’t stop ringing for three days.”

The tailor winces, and belatedly you cover your mouth. Asriel reaches out to wrap both arms around you, holding you close to his warm chest. He’s very solid; you can feel his heartbeat against your forehead and your cheek.

“She and all the others can’t hurt you anymore,” he says, the rare note of a growl in his voice. “You’re here and you’re safe and you can wear whatever you damn well want.”

You giggle a little. “Don’t swear in public, Your Majesty, it’s rude.”

He bends down to kiss the top of your head. “If I can’t swear at the memory of all the people on the surface who were bad and cruel to you, then what’s the point of knowing bad words?” he says, all light and reasonable. “I do use them as sparingly as I can. Heck, even Mom swears sometimes, so she’d probably agree with me that this is something that merits a little cursing.”

“Far be it from me to argue with Toriel,” you say, and wiggle in his arms until he lets you go. “I’m all right. I was just—surprised, a little.”

“If this wouldn’t be comfortable for you either, we can discuss other options,” the tailor says carefully, but you shake your head.

“No, I think it’s an excellent compromise, and we should keep it in mind as an option,” you say firmly. Your mind may still be trying to process your past trauma, but it _is_ in the past, you remind yourself. “I think—I think I’d like to wear something mirroring Asriel’s outfit, with an outer layer and an inner one. Shall we start with how we want the outer layer to look first?”

“All right,” the tailor says. The tense air in the shop relaxes, and though Asriel’s hand stays on the small of your back to support you, you turn to face the tailor properly, leaning in across the table as they sketch. “Let’s go with a darker overcoat and something light on the inside, then, as with the king’s clothes. We can use your usual green for it if you’d like the inner layer to be yellow, or…”

“Whatever I wear on the inside should be white, I think,” you suggest. “We can keep the yellow and gold to any accessories.”

“Very good,” the tailor agrees. They turn the page of their notebook, and their pen flies, sketching out a billowing, dramatic outline over a vaguely human frame. “What do you think about an outer robe like this one?” they say at last, turning it to show to you.

The sketch shows you something between a robe and a dress, with puffed-out upper sleeves that flare out loose and soft for a few inches around the elbow and heavy-looking bell-shaped skirts that trail on the ground like a train. It’s open all down the front, from the collar to the hem. You could probably run in it if it didn’t catch on anything, and if it _did,_ it looks easy to shrug out of and free yourself from.

It’s pretty, you think, or it would be if it were actually colored fabric instead of a colorless drawing. And it looks _grand._ Impressive. Wearing something like this, you’ll definitely still stand out next to Asriel.

“I think I like it,” you say. “What sort of suggestions do you have for what I could wear under this?”

“I can come up with a few,” says the tailor, smiling to you in an encouraging sort of way. “Let me draw them up for you, and you can pick out the ones you like.”

You take a deep, steadying breath and watch as they do just this.

 

 

By the time you leave the tailor’s, both you and Asriel have had your measurements taken, and have an appointment set up to come try your outfits on by the end of the week. You still have several hours left before you have to meet up with Alphys and the others for anime night; you spend two of these drinking Earl Grey and cuddling with Asriel to repair your shattered nerves.

He has paperwork that he could honestly be using this time to get through, but there’s not much of it, and you don’t have the heart to nag him when he’s being so comforting and you know you need the reassurance. Over and over, he strokes your back and tells you that you’re very strong and he’s proud of you, and even though you think he’s exaggerating a bit, it’s nice to hear him say it. Maybe someday soon you’ll be able to believe him when he says these things to you.

By the time you’ve finished your tea, you’re relaxed again, and you’re able to get up and put your used dishes in the sink for later washing without getting the shakes or succumbing to sudden bursts of anxiety or flashes of unwelcome old memory. You’re very satisfied by the time you return to the bedroom, and you smile as you sink back into Asriel’s arms.

He kisses you lightly on the cheek. “Feeling better?”

You kiss him back. “Yes,” you say. “Thank you for supporting me, and for helping me stay calm at the tailor’s. I appreciate it a lot.”

Asriel leans in to nuzzle your ear. “I’m just glad I could help,” he says, gentle and soft.

You curl closer into him and peck his cheek. He shifts to get his arm up over you, and trails kisses from the hinge of your jaw to the collar of your shirt. You realize hazily that he’s managed to roll you onto your back, and you raise an eyebrow. “Ree, don’t you have paperwork you need to do at some point tonight?”

He lifts the arm that had been slung over your front and flaps his hand, still kissing. “It’s not actually due until next week,” he says amiably. “This is much more fun than paperwork. Besides, we’ve still got hours before we have to go meet the others.”

His hand falls to your waist, then skims up under your shirt, making you gasp and laugh.

“I have the feeling I know exactly where those hours are going to go,” you say, and Asriel pauses, lifting his head to look you in the face properly.

“Would you rather stop?” he asks, soft and kind, his warm brown eyes filled with concern.

You raise your own hands to stroke his face. “No,” you tell him, leaning in to press your mouth briefly to his. “For all I’m paying lip service to responsibility, I’d much rather fritter the afternoon away on fooling around. By all means, keep going.”

“Okay,” Asriel says, and he leans back in, letting his hands roam as you pass your own fingers through his mane over and over.

This time, he only breaks the kiss to pull your shirt over your head, and he brings his mouth right back down to your bare skin as you hold him close and laugh breathlessly.

 

 

Alphys has been formally living on the second floor of her labs for the past year and a half—it has more room than her old apartment, and it’s easier for her to get straight to work. It’s also a lot easier for the pizza delivery monster to find, so there’s definitely that.

Tonight you and the others are all sprawled out across three couches, Alphys’ coffee table coated in pizza boxes, while she shuffles through anime boxes. Virtually the whole gang is here tonight—Mettaton is out on television business and Napstablook wasn’t feeling social, and it’s too late for Papyrus to be out on a school night, of course; in addition to yourself, Asriel, and Alphys, though, you have Undyne, Prase, Rufus, Innig, Sans, and Liron all present.

Everyone has at least one pizza, too.

It’s good to be curled up half on Asriel’s lap and with your legs bent up over Prase’s, your toes on Undyne’s jeans. You have your pizza boxes propped on your own lap where they belong, topped with tomato sauce and substitute pepperoni and steamed peppers and none of that awful cheese; everyone else’s pizzas are more or less free-for-alls, with only yours and Liron’s clearly labeled in bold marker, since the others’ food generally has things that neither of you can eat.

You’re hungry from more or less skipping lunch earlier, you’re relaxed and sleepy from your afternoon spent messing around with Asriel, and as noisy as everybody is, it’s very calming to be here, amongst a friendly press of bodies—amongst people you like and whom you know are safe. Your and Asriel’s work is important, but it’s draining, so these chances to kick back are very valuable.

“Anyway, what _are_ we going to watch tonight?” you ask. “I know we agreed on Sailor Moon last time, but I don’t think I’m quite steady enough for arguing with Alphys over whether the nineties adaptation or the reboot is better.” You having been introduced to the series by reading the manga at the library and her first finding it through someone’s discarded box set of the first anime, your opinions on the subject are very different. Debating it can be fun, especially since you do agree that you’ve got the right to think how you want even if you’re both pretty sure the other is dead wrong, but it can be stressful if one or both of you have brittle nerves.

Alphys, who understands this even if her anime opinions are occasionally incorrect, grins and shrugs, nodding. “Th-that’s fair, I think,” she says. “D-does anyone else have requests?”

“Well, Papyrus is at home, so where’d we leave off with Utena?” Undyne prompts.

Alphys frowns. “We’re at the end of the f-first cour, I think? S-so that might not b-be a good idea just now.” Her gaze flicks very obviously to you, and you remember what you know about that particular show’s overarching plot and make a face.

“There’s always Steven Universe,” Innig says, would-be innocent. “If we want to watch Rufus turn into a puddle of insensate goo over Jasper, I mean. That’s always funny.”

Rufus sinks down on the couch, red all the way to the tips of his ears. “Leave me _alone,”_ he complains, kicking his foot out.

“Y-yeah, leave him al-lone,” Alphys says. Then she smiles long and smarmy, eyes half-lidded. “C-can you really b-blame him for b-being into really buff ladies? ‘C-cause I for one sure can’t.”

Asriel snorts, and you cover your own smile with a hand. Sans pretends to whistle from his perch on the other end of the sofas, and Liron coughs into hir sleeve. Prase golf claps with a perfect poker face on, the line of their gaze flicking from Undyne to Rufus to Innig and back—Undyne is grinning at Alphys, blushing; Rufus has sunken down even lower on the couch, groaning “shut up” all the way; Innig is raising a curious eyebrow, apparently noticing that he won’t look her in the face.

“Why not Ghibli movies,” you say, deciding you might as well step in and save your friend. “We could all use the time to relax, and they’re a good old standby.”

“Any objections t-to Ghibli movies?” Alphys asks, looking around; there are a few shrugs, but no one offers any. “O-okay then, I-I’ll put some in.”

“You know, while we’re here,” Asriel says as she fumbles with the blu-ray player, “I think this’s a good opportunity to pick up volunteers.”

Heads turn to focus on you all. “Is this about the wedding blessings?” Prase asks.

“Yeah,” Asriel says. He looks down at you, as if asking for your permission to go on; you nod for him to handle it and take a bite of your pizza, unconcerned. The bread is soft and warm, the sauce and toppings just spicy enough to be flavorful without reaching a level that will give you a stomachache later. You’re glad you have two of these—you’ll almost definitely be able to finish both of them; skipping lunch and then exerting yourself before coming here has left you awfully hungry. “Prase already agreed to when Chara asked them the other day, and Liron said ze’s not interested, but we’re thinking about maybe four more people to give speeches at the ceremony? Since I guess we’re going to be asking my parents too, I mean.”

“That sounds like effort,” Sans comments.

“You don’t have to if you’d rather not,” Asriel rushes to reassure him as you busy yourself savoring the salty pizza crust, and then he launches into an explanation. Finishing your first slice, you thumb open the top box balanced on your lap and select a second. Asriel will be fine if you leave him to it.

The others listen with interest; as soon as he’s done, Undyne nods approvingly. “Sure, I’ll do it! I’ve known you punks since I was a kid, I owe you both a lot.” Her eye flicks momentarily to Alphys, who blushes bright scarlet through her scales. “I’d be happy to step up to the plate! I’m gonna give you the best, most passionate blessing EVER!”

You nearly choke on your bite of pizza. “It’s not a _competition,_ Undyne,” you chide.

She clenches her fist. “So what!!! I’m still gonna be the best, ‘cause the best is what you deserve!!! We love you and you gotta DEAL with it!”

You blink and let your eyes fall to the half-eaten pizza slice in your hand, pretending to wipe your mouth in order to better hide your expression. “I suppose I do,” you reply at length, keeping your voice light.

Asriel’s arm tightens around your waist surreptitiously. You elbow him a little.

“I wanna do it too,” Rufus says. “It’s like Undyne says. Your whole family’s been here for me since I first came to the underground, and you’ve been my friends for half my life. I’m real happy for you guys and how far you’ve come. It’d be my pleasure to help out like this.”

“I’m with Rufus, count me in,” Innig adds. You chance a peek up to find her smiling, her chin rested in her hand. “I’m glad that you came to us to ask. I’ll be sure to write something nice for you both.”

“I-I,” Alphys starts. You whirl over to her, and so does everyone else, apparently, because she balks a little—though she forges onwards nonetheless. “I’m n-no good at public speaking, not really, b-but if y-you’re alright with that… I-I’d really like to, um, to give it a shot? Y-you’re my best friend, Asriel. I wouldn’t b-b-be with Undyne if I hadn’t met you and, and Chara; I wouldn’t have so many friends now.” She laughs, the slightest bit awkward. “I-I want to show my appreciation, if I can.”

Asriel’s chest hitches against your shoulder as he breathes, and you tilt your chin up to see that his eyes are just as damp as you’d expected.

“Of course,” he says, smiling at her. “It—it, uh, means a lot that you, and I mean _all_ of you actually, are willing to do this. Thank you. All of you.”

Sans lifts a bony finger, counting under his breath. “There’s five volunteers, which plus the former king and queen makes seven. Meaning _I_ am officially off the hook,” he proclaims, and sinks down into the pillows with a satisfied sigh. From the floor, Liron raises one hand; Sans high fives hir in lethargic triumph. You snort a bit, hiding it behind your third pizza slice of the evening.

“Chara, stop stuffing your face before we’ve even put the movie in,” Prase scolds. “Or at least drink something, maybe? Aren’t you thirsty?”

“No,” you say, struggling to keep a straight face, “I’m good, actually, I made sure I was well satisfied before we got here.”

 _“Chara,”_ Asriel says from behind you, starting to laugh.

Prase just eyes you blandly. “Nice. Next you’ll be offering up Asriel’s pizza to the rest of us because he already ate, won’t you?”

 _“Prase!”_ Asriel wails, and you lose it.

“Actually,” you say brightly between giggles, and it is at this that Prase finally turns to laugh into their own shoulder.

“If you three over there c-can chill for like five minutes,” Alphys drawls from in front of the TV (you’d almost stopped laughing, but her expression sends you into another fit of giggles so severe that you can barely breathe), “I’m putting the movie in now.”

It transpires that none of you can chill, so she puts the movie in anyway, and you let yourself calm down slowly while Alphys turns the lights down and the blu-ray menu loads.

You return to your pizza slice only to realize that Prase might’ve had a bit of a point, and you stretch out for your teacup. You can’t reach the handle by just a few inches—actually being able to would require sitting up, which you don’t really want to do because you’re comfortable where you’re at, thanks. You stretch a little more, vainly, and Asriel takes the hint and retrieves it for you, and you murmur your thanks before draining half its contents and passing it back.

“So much for those jokes,” he says next to your ear as he bends to set the teacup back down. “You’re thirsty after all, huh?”

You lean back so that you can stare straight into his eyes. “Asriel,” you tell him seriously, “whatever I might say for the sake of making a silly joke, you of all people should be _well_ aware that I am always and will always be thirsty.”

He chokes a little, and you smile sweetly up at him as the opening credits start to roll.

“If you two can’t save the come-ons for later, I’m going to grab a glass of water to pour down the front of each of your pants to cool you off,” Prase says from your other side, and both of you yelp a little. “At least try to keep it PG-13 when you’ve got company?”

“I can’t _believe_ you’ve been nagging us to this effect for twelve years now,” you grumble.

“I can’t believe I still have to,” they shoot back, patting your knee.

You could come up with a retort, you’re sure, but you just settle back into Asriel’s lap and munch on pizza and pay attention to Howl and Sophie. You wish you had a copy of this book, too—what you remember of the printed version is very different, and you’re sure you liked it just as much as the adaptation when you read it as a child.

Halfway through the movie you doze off, warm and content and full of pizza, safe and happy between your fiancé and your best friend; when you open your eyes, Sophie is offering Calcifer her braid, meaning it’s nearly over. Oh, well. You’ve seen every Ghibli movie dozens of times, after all; it’s not a big deal.

(Asriel carries you home, later—carries you straight to bed, and perhaps he sees you preparing to make another thirsty joke, because he kisses you so thoroughly that you quite lose your train of thought.)

 

 

You read the second half of _Kitchen_ to Astis as he peels and shreds potatoes, your chair pulled up companionably to the counter so that you can lean back against it while he works.

He’s brought big bags of ingredients, so much that the ghost of the child you once were boggles in the back of your mind at the excess. All for just the two of you! Even though he did say that he had multiple recipes to try, it’s still wonderfully, terrifyingly decadent.

When you get to the katsudon scene, you’re so caught up in your reading that you don’t notice for a while that Astis has stopped messing with the potatoes to listen to you. He leans his weight against the counter, face rested in his hand; over the tops of the pages you can see him watching you intently, blinking slow and steady while you read.

“ _‘The room was warm, filling with steam from the boiling water,’_ ” you read. “ _‘I launched into what time I’d be in and what platform I’d be on.’_ ”

You let that last sentence stand, closing your eyes in the silence. You swallow hard and then close the novel, laying it cover-side up on your lap.

Astis, you note as you look up, is still watching you, his expression unreadable to you. Perhaps it’s only because you’re still getting to know one another, and once you have a better understanding of him the tilt of his eyelashes will be as clear as the twist of Undyne’s wrist as she plays with her spear, or Prase’s direct gaze and small frown, or Asriel turning small objects over and over in his hands.

You pick up your teacup and drink from it to soothe your throat and put off having to say anything—you briefly consider launching into an explanation of _Moonlight Shadow_ since this is one of the editions of _Kitchen_ that includes it, but that seems so clinical and falsely cheerful. You know you couldn’t keep the emotion out of your voice when you read Eriko’s letter; god, you cried the first time you read that part aloud to Asriel, and though you can usually keep from doing so when you’re reading out loud nowadays, it’s still a near thing sometimes.

“It was a really good story,” Astis says when you put your teacup down. “I liked it a lot. I think I can see why you like it, too.”

Relief floods you, buoyant and giddy, and you grin. “I’m glad to hear it. Were there any parts you liked?”

“The part where she brings him the katsudon,” Astis answers automatically, smiling; you nod, having expected this from his intent listening earlier. “I also liked the part in the first half where Mikage and Yuuichi have the same dream. It was… I thought it was really romantic at first, but now I’m not sure if it was more like family. Either way, it was sweet.”

Here, he frowns a little and falls silent. You nod again, encouraging him to go on.

“I don’t know if I _liked_ it, but I did think that Eriko’s letter was good.”

“I have a feeling I understand,” you say, and take another sip of tea. Astis raises his eyebrows at you, like _go on,_ so you do. “I was uncomfortable with all the back and forth about Eriko’s gender even back when I first read _Kitchen,_ but I could look past it because of how long ago the story had been written, and because it had been filtered through a translator too. Maybe—I _made_ myself look past it, because I was just that desperate for stories about trans people. Either way, I dealt with it, but I _hated_ that she died.” That she was killed by a stalker, too, because your classmates and the children in higher grades had just started to harass you then, and you were afraid. But that part, you think, you’re not going to tell a child. “People like me always seemed to die, in stories. It’s an awful lesson for a child to absorb, that if you aren’t cis, if you aren’t straight, you don’t have a future.

“But she’d been one of my favorite characters, and her letter was very human. It was very emotional to read.” You pause. “There are a few things about her that have stayed with me for most of my life—that she retaliated against the man who murdered her, for instance, and that no one said it was wrong of her to do so.”

Astis is looking at you with a curious expression; you smile a little, bitter. “I’m not a very nice person, you see.”

He shakes his head. “I don’t think that’s true.”

If he takes you at your meaning and still wants to argue that, you’re not going to have the debate with him; he’s too young. “Was there anything else you wanted to talk about? About the book, I mean.”

Blessedly, Astis lets the subject drop. “I’m still not sure what exactly Mikage and Yuuichi were supposed to be to each other. I think that was pretty interesting. I’m just going on the stories that were told to me, and things I’ve seen on TV, but I feel like usually you’d have characters like that set up as being in love or set them up as family. It’s weird that _Kitchen_ didn’t do that.”

You nod. “There certainly is a great deal of ambiguity. I, er, I tend to interpret things a certain way, but that’s because my relationship with Asriel has left me biased. There are many things about her situation in the story that mirror how I felt, being fostered by the Dreemurrs. But it’s nice, to have room for different readings. To have the protagonist herself not quite sure how she feels, just that her relationship with Yuuichi is important to her. I think that that’s maybe more realistic than having everything be clear-cut from the beginning.”

“Is it?” Astis asks, head cocked to the side. “In fairy tales and in movies and things, you can always tell right away when two people are going to fall in love.”

“I think it varies from person to person—and relationships change,” you say, thinking of Rufus and Innig. “Sometimes people are attracted to one another right away—take the captain of the Royal Guard and our Royal Scientist, for instance. Sometimes long-standing friendships will deepen into romance later, or romances will deepen into friendships.” You twist your engagement ring on your finger, liking to feel the smooth sensation over your skin. “Asriel still swears he fell for me at first sight, but it took me over a year to feel anything very romantic for him. Which was probably a combination of my feelings developing and changing, and my not being in a state where I _could_ love someone like that in a healthy way when I first came to the underground.” To Astis, who is watching you as if mystified, you smile and say, “If you ever fall in love yourself—you might never, and that’s fine too—but _if,_ you’ll find out what it’s like then.”

“Sounds complicated.”

“Relationships often can be.” You get up with a groan and pull your chair back to the table, trying to ignore the way that your knees pop audibly four times in a row.

“Maybe you should sit?” Astis suggests, gentle.

“Perhaps,” you say, and you do.

He returns to cooking, mixing shredded potato together with eggs and lemon juice and oil. His elbows and his knuckles dimple as he moves his arms and hands; his movements are as practiced and easy as Asriel’s are in the kitchen—something you can only admire from a distance, too hesitant to try to cook again yourself. When he tips the contents of the bowl into a frying pan and spreads it around with a spatula, the room quickly fills with the delicious smell of cooking potato.

It’s a familiar smell, too—subtly different from what you remember the house smelling like when your mother made latkes, but familiar enough to make your heart beat faster and your stomach growl.

“Where did you learn to make these, anyway?” you ask. Maybe if you continue the conversation, you can distract yourself from your sudden and overwhelming desire for breakfast.

“My family and I stayed at a synagogue once during Hanukkah,” Astis explains, “and we didn’t have much other way to thank them, so we offered to help out during the community dinners. It was a lot of fun. We left after a while—Mom always felt bad when we had to stay with strangers for long periods of time, she didn’t even like staying at shelters—but this recipe is the easiest, so I remembered.

“I learned the other recipes I know from other people I met—from after we got separated and I was on my own. The other one I want to try for you today is one of those. The family that taught me that way is the one that gave me my apron.”

You eye his dull khaki-colored apron with fresh interest. It seems to have seen a lot of use; you think you saw a few stains on the front. “And here I assumed that Mettaton had provided you with that, you working for him and all.”

“Oh, he gave me one to wear as part of my work uniform,” Astis says, “but I still use this one when I’m not on the clock because it’s my favorite. I’m going to keep using it until it doesn’t fit anymore.”

“Hmm.” You stretch for a while, then lean forward to rest your head on your arms and close your eyes. “You were lucky to have been able to find a few kind people.”

“I was,” he agrees. “There were a lot of kind people. Some who were—not so kind. But a lot of them were still very kind.”

The latke smell intensifies, and memory tugs at your sleeve. You remember being—very, very small, probably only four or five, sitting on a footstool in the kitchen as your mother fried potato pancakes on the range. You remember her singing something— _rock of ages, hear our song_ —but you can only recall that tiny snippet of the tune.

Remembering hurts, profoundly. It doesn’t fill your ears with pounding blood and stitch your chest up in panic, it doesn’t set your stomach to mutiny, but you feel suddenly lonely, and that loneliness stings.

You don’t miss her—not really. You miss what she could have been to you, if she’d really loved you. You miss the mother you could have had. But reminding yourself of this doesn’t help, and you’re filled with a sharp ache to go track down any one of the Dreemurrs you can find, to wrap your arms around one of the monsters who _does_ love you unconditionally.

“All done,” Astis announces, and you sit up slowly just as he sets a plate down on the table. The big mass of shredded potato has formed one gigantic pancake that he must have cut with the side of the spatula; it’s neatly divided so that each of you has half.

Looking at him, you recognize your own expression from when you’d finished reading _Kitchen_ to him. So you reach out and break off a bite-sized piece of latke with your bare fingers—it’s still slightly hot to the touch—and stick it in your mouth.

Astis waits while you chew the thing, barely blinking, barely even breathing.

“It’s very good,” you tell him as soon as you’ve swallowed it. “A bit different from what I can remember, but I like the texture and the tartness. It has—I can only think to phrase it as a gentle flavor, which I can only attribute to the temperament of the chef.” You bow your head a little, and Astis blushes and grins.

The two of you make short work of the latke; as soon as you’re done, he wipes his hands on his pants and stands back up.

“The next one might be the same kind of recipe as your mother’s,” he says, excited. “I’ll get started on it as soon as I’m done with the dishes.”

“How about I do the dishes while you work on prep,” you suggest, dubious. And once you’re at the sink, you pause for a moment to add, “You don’t really have to spend all this time cooking for me. Won’t you wear out, since you do all this for work anyway?”

Astis shakes his head enthusiastically. “No, of course not. I love to cook. I love to make food for people. When I lived on the surface, people always did this for me, and I had so few chances to pay those people back. Now I’m in a place to pay it _forward_ instead. I couldn’t be happier.”

You nod, considering. “I can see that, I suppose. But please, don’t hesitate to take time for yourself as well. I don’t want to take advantage; I don’t want to put you under any undue stress, either.”

“Um—Mx Chara?” (You jump a little at the honorific, staring at him wide-eyed; he graciously ignores the awkwardness of this reaction.) “You’re wrong. You really _are_ a nice person.”

It takes a moment for you to place what he’s referring to, and by the time you have, he’s smoothly preparing ingredients already, so you just hold your tongue.

The second batch of latkes are more pancake-shaped, made with flour instead of just potato and egg, and the potato has been grated more finely. Astis tops them with sweet applesauce from a jar.

They taste like nothing you’ve eaten before, but you like them very much all the same, and you make sure to tell Astis this. He smiles when you say so.

 

 

You stare at yourself in the mirror, frowning, only managing not to fidget because your clothes are still held together with pins.

“How does it look in there?” Innig calls from the other side of the curtain.

“It _looks_ excellent,” you tell her. “The work these monsters do is always top-grade.”

A beat. “Okay, I’ll rephrase that, then. How do you feel?”

You size up your reflection and consider her question.

The Chara in the mirror is wearing a pristine white wedding dress—the bodice is crisp and fitted close to their chest and waist, where it tapers off in crisp folds, giving way to a long, full folded skirt that skims the tops of their black-stockinged feet. The sleeves of the dress are close-fit too; their ends, along with the garment’s tall neck, are lined in softly shiny silver trim; that same trim traces a line from the tops of their shoulders to form a V over the base of their breasts. It’s not low enough to show any cleavage—not that your chest is really big enough for proper cleavage, unless you’re pushing your breasts together. The dress’s fabric is translucent and gauzy around mirror-Chara’s throat and upper chest.

 You frown a little. Mirror-Chara frowns back. Slowly, carefully, you turn in a circle, craning your neck to inspect the dress from all angles; from the side, you gather your hair up in your hands and hold it up behind your head. This outfit will definitely look better if you can pin it up somehow, especially once the overcoat is finished.

“I feel—strange, very,” you volunteer at last, letting your hair fall. “A neutral sort of strange. I’m not panicking, obviously. I don’t think I would be able to handle it if I wasn’t wearing pants underneath, but this just may work.

“I look like a stranger, though,” you continue, letting go of your hair and reaching forward to poke the mirror. Your gestures are timid. “I haven’t worn a dress for twenty whole years. It’s very odd to look at myself like this.”

“You could open the curtain and let us see,” Innig suggests.

You and your reflection exchange long-suffering glances for just a moment, and then you obey, pulling the curtain of the changing room back to give your friend and the tailor a view.

Innig’s eyebrows go up, her eyes wide; she raises a hand to her mouth. “Oh, _Chara,”_ she says, a little tremble in her low musical voice. “You’re _beautiful.”_

The tailor beckons to you, and you step out into the main room, careful of the pins that keep your clothes together. They bid you to raise your arms in front of you so that they can check how well the dress fits.

You and Asriel agreed that you ought to go to your fittings separately, and only see each other in your wedding clothes when you face each other at the ceremony itself. He’s off at a meeting in Waterfall now, which made it a good opportunity; when you texted your friends with pleas of moral support, Undyne and Prase had both been busy at work, but Innig had been available—and she needs to commission her own clothes besides—so naturally you invited her along.

It was as good an excuse as any to pick up Asriel’s wedding ring, too; you’ll need to find a good place to keep it until you exchange them during the ceremony.

“You really look the part,” Innig says, her eyes twinkling, while the tailor adjusts the placement of a few pins. “You and Asriel are going to be the most handsome brides in the underground, I bet. It’s a shame that we couldn’t actually hold the wedding in June.”

“I’m not going to put our wedding off for another _year_ just so that we can adhere to some silly human superstition,” you complain as the tailor directs you to change poses, hands gently examining the pull of fabric about your shoulders. “Where even does the whole June bride thing come from? I can’t say I’ve ever heard its origin.”

“It has to do with June being named for the Roman goddess Juno,” Innig supplies. “She was apparently supposed to preside over marriage, so I think marrying in her month dedicated your marriage to her, and she would bless you. Liron would be able to explain in more detail, I’m sure; it’s been a long time since I had to go to any classics lessons.”

“It always seemed cruel to me that Juno, or Hera, or whatever it’s better to call her—that she’s the goddess of marriage. I mean. Her own marriage was such a disaster.”

“Yeah, Zeus isn’t exactly what you’d think of as good husband material.” Innig shrugs and looks down at you, smiling. “You don’t need any heavenly blessings, though; you’ve got your friends and family to do that for you. And besides, you and Asriel have put years and years of work into your relationship. You’re going to do just fine.”

“It’s good to have the vote of confidence, I suppose,” you say, and sigh.

The tailor straightens up. “That’s all for the measurements,” they inform you. “How do you feel? Do you think that a dress will be too uncomfortable for you after all?”

“I _think_ it will be okay with the pants,” you say, nodding. “I can’t guarantee that I’m going to feel the same when the wedding gets closer and I get more nervous.”

“Just in case, I think I can keep the skirt and the top separate, so that you can go in the pants instead if you’d like and it comes down to that,” they tell you kindly. “They’re a dark enough shade of pearl to serve as a proper bottom half to this top, and people’s attention will be taken up by your outer layer anyway. I want to keep your options open.”

“As long as it’s not too much of a bother,” you say, relief thudding in your chest. “That would make me feel better. Thank you—for always being so patient with me.”

“It’s not a bother at all,” the tailor assures you. “We all want the best for you and His Majesty. The two of you are our hope, our pride, and our joy.”

You duck your head, embarrassed, pleased despite yourself, a little anxious. You want so badly to say that they and everyone else are just _wrong_ about you, but you’ve lived here so long, and the monsters understand you so much better than they did when you were a freshly fallen child. They know your flaws, they know your limitations. And they love you _because_ of those things, not even _despite_ them.

The goodness of monsters really and truly will be the death of you one day.

You’re saved from the sudden rush of overwhelming emotion by your phone’s ringtone, sounding from the pocket of your jeans where they lie crumpled, half-assedly folded on the changing room bench.

“Hold on while I get that,” you say, frowning, and carefully pick your way back in, mindful still of all those pins. Your phone’s still ringing once you successfully get it out; caller ID says that it’s Asriel. Your frown deepens as you hit accept. “Hello?”

“Howdy,” he says. He sounds ragged. “I’m sorry to call when you’re busy still.”

“We were just wrapping up here, actually,” you say, leaning your head to one side. “What’s the matter?”

He sucks in a breath at the other end of the line. “This meeting,” he says. “I could _really_ use some backup whenever you’re free.”

“I can be there very soon,” you assure him, looking over to Innig and the tailor and raising your eyebrows. They both nod. “I just need to get changed back into my clothes and I’ll be right there. Try to hold out until I arrive. You can send me the details over text, I’ll read them along the way.”

“Thanks,” Asriel says. “Love you.”

“I love you too,” you reply. “See you soon.”

The tailor and Innig help you undo the fastenings of the wedding dress, and you slip behind the curtain once more to wriggle carefully out of it and yank your jeans and t-shirt back on, jamming your feet into your hightops.

“I’m sorry to just ditch you like this,” you say to them both.

Innig waves a hand. “We’ll be fine talking about my outfit,” she says. “I’m glad I could come along to help and be there when you needed it. Asriel needs you now, though; you go rescue him.”

You grin and thank both her and the tailor one more time, and duck out of the shop. You’d prefer to run, really, but you only came in your ankle braces today because of the fitting, and your knees will be _incredibly_ displeased with you if you overdo it. So you make do with power walking, one eye on the street and another on the screen of your phone as you scroll through Asriel’s detailed texts.

It takes ten minutes to get to the meeting hall, and when you push the door open, you’re immediately met with Asriel’s gaze—he’s not even bothering to participate in the debate anymore. He must have been waiting for you to come bail him out all this time. His brown eyes are soft and wet with relief.

You cross the room to his side in swift strides, pinching his forearm lightly. “Don’t _cry,”_ you say to him in an undertone. “There are situations where tears will win the day for you, but this is _not_ one of them. Save your weakness for times when it’s strategically beneficial.”

His chuckle is wobbly, but at least he’s smiling. “That’s my Chara,” he says, dry and affectionate. “You read my texts?”

“Yes. And I think I’ve got an idea, I just need to look at the maps for a moment.”

Asriel nods. “Excuse me,” he says to the monsters in debate, and reaches out one huge hand to pull the maps of Waterfall and New Home over so that you can pore over them.

“This will work,” you say—aloud, to reassure both of you. And you take a deep breath, then reach out to rap your knuckles on the table. “Ahem—beauties and gentlebeauties?” you interrupt at what you think of privately as your Business Volume, trying to affect your best Mettaton impression. Monsters all throughout the room startle, hush, and whirl around to look at you; the ones who saw you come in are smiling at the joke. “I apologize for the intrusion. My partner brought me in, with the hope that a fresh pair of eyes might do this conversation some good.”

“We’d all like a solution,” one of the monsters crowded around the table says. “No one else has come up with a good one, so if you’ve got one, then by all means.”

You nod to them, and push the maps out so that everyone will be able to look at them. “It’s a good thing that we’re talking about the projected overcrowding now instead of leaving it until it becomes a real problem in however many decades,” you say. “Now—we’re trying to find somewhere for the large aquatic monsters in Waterfall to go once the caverns are too full, are we not?” The question is met with nodding from all corners of the room, and you take a deep breath. “Look at this section of New Home. No one’s been using it yet, so I think that it could be converted to aquarium space.”

“We talked about that earlier, but it’s not going to be big enough,” a different monster says. “I still think that it would be better to redistrict that whole part of the city so that we can clear space for something bigger, or expand the caverns.”

“That won’t be necessary,” you add quickly. “New Home is a mirror for Home, down to every district, and I believe that this same place isn’t being used in Home either. We build twin facilities. That doubles the space we’ll be getting from this project _without_ having to displace six residential blocks of monsters from their homes or courting any cave-ins.”

Asriel whistles beside you. “That might really work!”

You shake your head. “All you needed was to get someone in who wasn’t so engaged in the discussion that they could only think of the issue in terms of New Home. You’ll have to do more work on the bureaucratic side of things to clear usage of both those spaces, and I’m not _absolutely_ sure that none of that’s being used in Home, so you’ll have to work those parts out amongst yourselves. But this might be a decent starting point, still.”

“It’s better than any of the ideas we were arguing about, kiddo,” says one of the monsters—you blink at the familiar voice and crane your neck to see Gerson, lounging in his chair rather than leaning forward to examine the maps. “We’ll take it. Speaking of which, you all, can we start talking about a course of action if we decide to adopt this plan of attack?”

The discussion resumes. Asriel pulls up a chair for you, and you sit down at his side, content to half-listen unless your input is needed again.

“Thanks,” he murmurs, clasping your hand under the table. “We were getting absolutely nowhere, and I couldn’t think of anything good enough to make them all stop arguing.”

“You could say that things were… running aground?” you suggest, and he rolls his eyes at you lovingly.

“I’m so ready for a break,” he complains, so low that only you’ll be able to hear it. “I’m so tired. I just want to cuddle with you and nap, and we _still_ have to talk to Mom and Dad about the whole blessings thing.”

You pause, considering. “Actually, I’ve been meaning to say—if it’s all right with you, I’d like to ask them. The only person I’ve asked so far is Prase; you got everyone else out of the way all by yourself, so it’s only fair.”

“That’s because I asked them all at once,” Asriel says, “but if you really want to, go ahead. I can take Mom if you’re not feeling up to it.”

“I’ll remember that offer in case I chicken out,” you say with a small grim smile, “but there are a few things I’ve been meaning to speak with them about, with the wedding coming up and all. Now that I’m officially becoming a family member.”

“You’ve been as good as for a long time,” Asriel points out, squeezing your hand a little.

“According to all of you, at least.” You swallow. “That’s sort of what I want to talk to them about, though.”

Asriel breathes in, sharp and low.

“If there’s anything I can do to help,” he begins.

“Be there for me when I’m finished,” you tell him. “I’m going to need it.”

He nods. “Okay. I will.”

You close your eyes and let the construction debate wash over you, tightly holding on to your partner’s hand all the while.

 

 

Asriel goes right to bed as soon as you’re back home, barely changing into pajama pants first, and he’s asleep in ten minutes. You’re very glad that he can’t sleep on his back anymore whenever you’re trying to go to bed together, but when he’s napping and you’re not, you do have to admit to yourself that you miss the buzz of his snore to tell you that he’s content.

You put your knee braces on, tuck the box with Asriel’s wedding ring into a corner of your underwear drawer where he won’t go looking for it, and leave the room. When you shut the door, you hold your breath and do it by inches.

Tiptoeing through the hall, you tap lightly at Asgore’s bedroom door; there isn’t any response. You turn the doorknob to find that it isn’t locked, but when you push it open, he’s not inside, so you just close it again and turn back.

Toriel is sitting in her reading chair with her feet up, paging through the newspaper with her glasses perched on her nose and a look of contentment on her face. She folds it and rests it in her lap as you approach.

“Greetings, my child,” she says, smiling. “Meetings over with for today?”

“Yes,” you tell her. “I think we’ve gotten the ball rolling for alternate living space to be built for monsters who need water, hopefully in time to avoid overcrowding in Waterfall. And I had my dress fitted today, so there’s that too. Ree’s bushed—he might just keep sleeping until tomorrow, even.” You pause. “Did ruling ever wear you out this much, when you were new to it?”

Toriel chuckles. “I believe it had a more severe toll on Gorey than on me,” she volunteers. “There were times after our early press conferences and speeches that he would have to lie down just like this. Asriel will get used to it in time, my dear. He has you with him, which is doing him a great deal of good.”

You scratch the back of your neck and look down at your toes to hide your smile. “Um, speaking of Asgore—where has he gotten to? There’s something I need to talk to him about.”

“He ought to be in the garden, my child,” Toriel supplies readily. “While you are there—remind him to come back in time for dinner, will you not?”

“I will,” you say, and you return to the foyer to head down the stairs, trotting down the ramparts to get to the throne room.

 

 

The light that filters through the ceiling is still bright and full; squinting upwards tells you that it’s blue-skyed day out, with not a cloud visible through the tiny cracks that have taunted monsters with freedom’s proximity for centuries.

Asgore is puttering through the flowers with a watering can, humming, his feet and his cloak shushing carefully between the plant life. He looks—not just content, but happy. You hesitate at the entrance of the room for a while, watching him—the weight of centuries in the stoop of his back, the gray slashed through the precisely trimmed golden mane now more plentiful than the silver in your own hair. Sometimes it still catches you off guard to see him without the crown, even though you’ve finally adjusted to it sitting on Asriel’s brow instead.

Loneliness propels your feet forward, and Asgore notices your footsteps before you can herald your own arrival: His head raises and he turns, and breaks out into a wide smile.

“Well, howdy, Chara,” he says, kind and jovial. “What is the occasion?”

“I was wondering if you would like some company,” you say, smiling back at him.

Asgore nods. “I am always glad to have you with me, my child.”

So you cross the room, your own steps just as careful as his. The only throne here is Asriel’s, now; Toriel’s old one will be brought out of storage for you eventually, but it’s convenient for the moment to only have one choice of perch. You seat yourself in the tall chair, curling up to watch your foster father watering the plants.

There are buttercups in the corner, again, and he waters them with the same care as everything else. It surprised you a little when he planted them again—Toriel had destroyed the patch after the truth came out about your attempted suicide—but then, the flowers themselves were blameless; the use you put them to was your own choice. And they’re far from the only things in Asgore’s garden that hide poison in their petals.

It’s just like Asgore to treat even these flowers that nearly killed him with love and care. He’s skilled at distilling the good in his memories and carrying it always. You’d never be able to imitate that, but you admire it all the same.

“I know you’ll still be close, and I’m happy that you and Toriel are finally getting to retire after all the hard work you’ve done for this kingdom, but I’m going to miss you when you move out,” you tell him. “I’m having difficulty believing it’s almost time.”

“As am I,” Asgore says, “if I am to tell the truth. It feels as though the two of you grew up in the blink of an eye. You must forgive me if I get a bit misty at your wedding.”

“Ree will probably start crying ages before you do, so I don’t think you have to worry about losing face,” you joke. “For my part, I need to stop being so wishy-washy.”

“Oh?”

“Just this morning alone, I think I wrote ‘Chara Dreemurr’ in the margins of my notebook at least twenty times,” you elaborate, picking at the little frayed spot in the right knee of your jeans. “I only crossed it out three times, I erased the rest, so I’m not sure of the actual total.”

“You still have plenty of time to decide,” Asgore says, gentle. You’re not sure whether or not you’re grateful that he guessed the cause of your concerns so quickly. “It is entirely up to you, and until you file the paperwork you may change your mind as many times as you wish.”

“Every time I convince myself that I do want to take Asriel’s name, I remember that I already turned the name Dreemurr down the last time it was offered to me. I know that this is _different,_ but I still feel odd about it.”

“There is no wrong decision,” Asgore reminds you.

You nod. “It would make Asriel happy, though.”

“It would,” Asgore agrees. “But if it would make you miserable, then it would perhaps be better in the long run to be kind to yourself.”

That sounds wise. You take a deep breath, lean back, and listen to distant birdsong. It’s just like old times—this has been a constant in your life for two decades, getting sage advice from Asgore in the garden. (It’s _sage_ advice, after all; the garden and the kitchen are the most apropos settings for it in the world. You smile at your own joke, and file it away for later, to annoy Asriel with or to make Toriel or Sans laugh.)

“This is a bit of a topic change,” you say, “but I promise it’s still related. You’ve heard what Asriel and I are doing with having people bless us at our wedding, right?”

“I had heard,” Asgore says. Apparently finished with watering, he sits down on the ground next to his son’s throne with a satisfied-sounding sigh. “You are asking seven guests, are you not?”

“We are,” you say. “I was wondering if you would like to be one of them.”

Asgore is silent for a moment. When you look at him, he’s regarding you with some intense and unreadable emotion in his yellow-gold eyes.

“Would you not rather ask a friend of yours, instead of an old man like me?” he asks, his voice very soft and gentle.

You shake your head. “I very much want it to be you. And I also want to… explain a little bit of my reasoning, if that’s alright.”

Your foster father nods. “By all means; I would be happy to listen.”

You look down at your hands. Your stomach squirms. “It’s not… going to be a happy story to hear,” you warn him.

“Ah,” he says. A pause. Then: “Nevertheless, Chara, if you wish to talk to me, I very much want to hear it. I care for you a great deal; if you desire it, if it will help you, then I want to hear it.”

You take a deep breath. Hold it. Twist your engagement ring on your finger. Clasp your locket in your hands, run its smoothness all along your palms and your fingertips. Exhale. Okay.

“My parents,” you begin, and then you falter, and when you open your mouth again the words won’t come out. One more deep breath. “This is hard,” you say to stall for time. “I’ve only ever been able to talk about this to Asriel and Prase before.”

“That is all right,” Asgore says immediately, steady and quiet. “If you are not ready, you may change your mind at any time. I will not and could never hold that against you, my child.”

Your heart squeezes in your chest, and you bite your lip. Clench your fists. “No,” you say. “I’m going to tell you. I decided that I’m going to tell you. There are some things that I think you deserve to hear.”

He nods, saying nothing, and you take a breath to get started again.

“My father was a bad man,” you say. Your voice is a rasp, but there’s certainty in it, embers of an old anger that you’ll never forget, not really. “He was a terrible person. There’s just no other way around it. I don’t know what there was in him that my mother loved—if she was fooling herself, if there really was something there to love once, if he just convinced her that she needed him, or that he needed her. He was terrible to her, and he was terrible to me.

“My earliest memories of him are—are all just his shouting at my mother, or at me, or making me wear things I hated and do things I didn’t want to by threatening me. Then after he stopped going away on business trips, it got worse.

“Whenever he was angry he would take it out on me. He would get my mother in on it too. Sometimes when he looked like he was in a bad mood she’d come after me right away, like she wanted to get it over with. Better me than her, I suppose.”

Your voice has gone toneless, you realize distantly. There’s nausea in your belly but you’re a yawning black void of emotionless ichor.

“He beat me when he was angry, when he was drunk, when he was bored. At first he only hit me in places that wouldn’t show, or over my clothes so that it wouldn’t leave a mark, but then one night he overdid it and the next day nobody cared about my black eye, so. He escalated.” You shrug. Your cheeks hurt. It’s no surprise to you that when you trace your mouth it’s a tight crescent. “He used his hands. He used any blunt object that he thought to pick out. When he,” you swallow, briefly, and then forge on, “when he saw that I’d cut myself, he used knives on me. Like it was a game, to punish me for playing with them. He held me down and burned me. He threatened to do—worse things. Things that—” your breath hitches, and you stop for a moment. “Things that I can’t even bear to repeat now, things that still give me nightmares, even though it’s been so long. I hate him. I’ll always hate him. I was terrified of him. He was a bad, awful, _vile_ person.”

Numb as you are, your hands and your voice are still shaking.

“I can’t even remember his face,” you say, aiming for conversational—but the words come out too fast, vaguely panicked, disconcerting even to you. The carved armrest of Asriel’s throne digs into your shoulder uncomfortably, and you press your weight into it. “I would recognize him if I saw him, I’m sure of it, but if I try to remember what he looked like, I can only recall vague details, or general things. That he was tall. That he never let his beard grow any longer than stubble.

“The men in the village were nearly as bad. Other children’s fathers, teachers and store clerks and librarians. They hated me, considered me a waste of space, and made sure I knew it. That awful ratty know-it-all child, covered in bruises from _fighting,_ they called it, with the unnatural smile and the creepy eyes. The heathen, the—I’m not repeating the slurs they used for my beliefs because then I really _will_ be sick.

“But my father was the worst. I wished he would die. I wished I had the guts and the power to kill him myself. I spent every moment of my life afraid, until I couldn’t stand it anymore and climbed Mt. Ebott, praying that I would never go back.

“That’s—that’s why.” You take a deep breath and close your eyes, clenching your fists so hard that your joints ache, that your fingernails dig into your palms. “That’s what my first thought will always be, when I think of _my father._ I know that parents are supposed to care for their children. I’ve seen fathers who love their families properly since I’ve come to the underground—many of them. I can reconcile it when it comes to my friends. But I can’t divorce the idea of parents from the people who made me.

“I’ve never been able to consider you my father, and that’s why. Because you’re too _good._ You’re too kind. You chose me, you took me into your home, you accepted me despite all my baggage and all my flaws. You’ve always been gentle with me, even when I caused trouble and did bad things, even when you must have been angry and frustrated. You’ve never raised your voice. You forgave me for _poisoning you._ You forgave me for all the pain and suffering I put Asriel through, leaning on him too hard. You were so patient with me even when I was too terrified to trust you. When Ree and I were having trouble, when he was too scared to let me stand on my own, you taught me how to fight—you gave me the strength I needed to fix things.

“For twenty years, you’ve been here for me, ceaselessly, unconditionally. You’re the first adult I was ever able to truly believe is a safe person. I don’t think I’ve ever been able to properly show you how grateful I really am to you—for raising me, for protecting me, for loving me.”

You’ve run out of steam, and this lets you wipe your face and take a deep, steadying breath.

“I still don’t think that I’m going to be able to consider you my father—not even now that you’re going to be my father-in-law. But that’s because you’re—you’re so much _more_ and so much _better_ than anything that word means to me. I love you so much, Asgore. Thank you for taking care of me, and being here for me. It means so much more than I’ll ever be able to express.”

Your voice cracks, and you give up.

Not once have you dared to look at Asgore while you spoke. You were afraid to see what kind of expressions he would wear, as you confessed the things that have been done to you.

A warm and very gentle hand settles on your shoulder, though, and you gasp out a little “Oh” and then hot tears are dripping down your face.

“I’m sure that I will never be able to fully appreciate how difficult it was to recount those things to me,” Asgore says softly, “but I thank you. I am so proud of how far you have come. And—” You’re sure it’s not your imagination that he sounds a little choked-up too; Asgore really is as bad as Asriel when it comes to these things. “I am glad that I’ve been able to do any right by you at all. You are an extraordinary child, Chara; you deserve so much more than life has seen fit to give you.”

At this, you can’t help but laugh. “I have you and Asriel and all the other monsters,” you remind him. “I have the other fallen humans. What more could I ever ask for?”

When you finally gather up your courage and turn, you see that Asgore is watching you steadfastly, his sun-colored eyes teary. You clamber off your partner’s throne and put your arms around him, holding on tight.

Aging though he is, the former king is solid and warm, and his arms around you are every bit as gentle as they were when you were a panicky ten-year-old.

“Of course I will bless you at your wedding,” he says. His voice is remarkably even, despite that you’re both crying. “Anything to make your and Asriel’s day more special. We have all been waiting so long for this. You had only to ask.”

“I know,” you say thickly, and tuck your chin down so that you can hide your face in his shoulder. “But I wanted you to understand, too. I wanted to—to at least try to put into words how much it’s meant to have you be so _kind_ to me.”

Asgore strokes your back, pads and claws very gentle. Not quite as if you’re _breakable,_ but as if you’re something immeasurably precious. That sense of being cared for is something you’ve only ever gotten from the Dreemurrs.

“Let us return home,” he murmurs to you. “I get the feeling that the both of us could use a cup of tea.”

You laugh, just a little. “I could,” you admit.

But you stay there for several minutes longer, basking in the sensation of both being protected and being _strong._ Of safety, you realize belatedly.

When you finally let go of him and you pull each other up, Asgore offers you his hand. You take it, and when you walk home, you do so side by side.

 

 

Empty plates and used dishes scatter across the table and the counter, looking to you as thick as fallen leaves.

Astis has treated you to three separate varieties of latke already this morning—small thick ones with bits of cooked vegetable mixed in with the strips of potato, thin ones with a lot of cabbage in their finely ground potato-and-flour batter, tiny palm-sized ones made from two separate types of potatoes. Every single one was a delicious revelation, and you made sure to tell him that, but every time his pleased expression fades into strange concern, a furrow forming between the thick soft commas of his eyebrows.

“It’s amazing to me that there are so many different ways to cook a latke,” you say, leaning back. Selfishly, you hope in the depths of your heart that if Astis wants to continue to stuff you that he’ll do so at another opportunity; you’re comfortably full now, but eating another serving size would be decidedly _un_ comfortable. “And I haven’t met a single one that I don’t like. We haven’t known each other for nearly long enough that you’ll understand how incredible that is yet, but you may come to see soon.”

Astis smiles briefly, but then he goes back to looking worried. “There _are_ a lot of different recipes,” he says. “And I know a lot of them, but… I really wish I could make them the same as the ones you used to eat as a kid. You haven’t had them in a long time, right? I want you to be able to have them again, and it feels like I should be able to help. I _want_ to help.”

You tilt your head to one side and stare at him with more than a little wonder. This boy barely even knows you, but he’s so earnest, so eager to please—so willing to tear himself up for your sake. You could let him keep going, if you wanted; he’d be happy to keep up his quest to duplicate your mother’s recipe, if you really and truly want it.

But you think that there’s a solution that will be gentler on you both, and so: You push your chair back and stand, crossing the kitchen to rest your hands on his shoulders.

“Astis,” you tell him with as much care as you can manage, “you don’t have to keep this up. It’s alright.”

“But,” he begins, soft round face creased and unhappy.

“I like your latkes much better than my mother’s,” you tell him.

He’d already been opening his mouth to argue back, but now he closes it. “Huh?”

“I mean it,” you say firmly. You consider your wording a little as you look into his warm black eyes. “None of my memories of the surface are truly good ones; neither my parents nor the villagers were kind. There’s no love lost there.

“My only connection to my cultural heritage was my mother, and my relationship with her… does not bear comment. But now… thanks to you, Astis, I have new memories and experiences with one of my favorite foods as a child that have _no connection with my past whatsoever._ Plus… it’s good to see the diversity in my people’s practices, even if it’s just culinary ones, even if it’s by proxy. It makes me feel better about a lot of things.

“I have a lot to thank you and Liron for. You don’t have to be upset if you can’t recreate my mother’s cooking; what you’ve already given me is _infinitely_ more precious in my eyes.” You stop to take a breath, to look uncertainly into the boy’s eyes. “Does… that make sense?” you append, hesitant.

You’re not sure what to expect from Astis—confusion, upset maybe, but he just looks at you for what feels like hours, narrowing his eyes slightly as he searches your expression.

At last: “Um,” he says, and looks down at his shoes for a moment, reaching up to rub at the tip of his nose. Then he raises his chin again to look into your face. “Mx Chara, may I give you a hug?”

For a moment all you can do is blink down at him, wide-eyed, utterly poleaxed. Then you regain command of your larynx. “You may,” you respond. It comes out a bit squeaky, but Astis doesn’t comment. “I appreciate that you asked for permission first.”

He nods. “I heard from other people that sometimes you don’t like being touched, so I wanted to make sure first.” And only then does he step forward to wrap his arms around your middle, resting his cheek at the middle of your chest.

It takes an extra beat for you to fold your own arms carefully over his round shoulders. His hug is soft and warm, the same as Asriel’s was when the two of you were children.

“Thanks for telling me,” Astis says into your shirt, hugging you tighter. “It… I bet that was hard, it can’t be fun to talk about, especially to a stranger, but I… I could’ve hurt you if I’d kept on like that not knowing how you really feel. So thanks for stopping me.” There’s a note in his voice that makes you wonder if something like that has happened to him before. “You really are nice.”

You bark out a laugh. It’s not a pleasant-sounding one. “I am neither nice nor good,” you inform the curly crown of his head, your smile sitting crooked on your lips. “I really must make an effort to disabuse you of this mistaken impression.”

Astis just laughs. You stand like that for a while.

When he eases away, his eyes are damp, and he rubs at them for a moment before turning a brilliant smile on you.

“So, um,” he says. “Actually, latkes aren’t the only Jewish food I know how to cook. I got taught a couple of other things too. And, um—you know that Mettaton volunteered us as caterers for your wedding, right? If… just _if,_ but if you want there to be latkes and matzo ball soup and macaroons and things there to eat… I’m pretty sure I could teach my coworkers how to make them all in time. It won’t be kosher or anything, but it’s still something, right?”

Your mouth is hanging open, you realize belatedly, and you shut it. “I’m,” you say after a pause more than long enough to be awkward. “I’m not sure that any of those are traditional wedding fare?”

“I don’t know either,” Astis says, shrugging, “but it’s your wedding, isn’t it? I think you’re allowed to have them if you want them.”

“Do you know,” you say, “you just might be on to something there.”

Astis grins.

 

 

You make it back home early enough that after you take your morning medicine you’re able to crawl back into bed. There are no official duties to be taken care of today; you’ll be helping Asgore and Toriel move their personal effects back to the old castle all afternoon, so Asriel has made sure to keep his schedule open.

Asriel himself is still in bed to greet you, muzzy with sleep; you curl up in his arms as he nuzzles your forehead, pressing lazy kisses into his chest and neck fur. He rouses, somewhat, to roll you onto your back; you gladly peel your pajamas off as his hands begin to roam, and sigh happily under his touch.

Several hours have passed by the next time you wake, and much as you’d like to spend the entire day tangled up with Asriel—it’s so rare nowadays that you can just curl up in bed and devote long, careless hours to cuddles and lovemaking and dozing in one another’s arms—it’s far past time for the two of you to at least _attempt_ to be responsible adults.

The biggest and most necessary pieces of furniture won’t go until after the wedding ceremony, because Asgore and Toriel will still be living here in New Home until then, and they need beds to sleep in. But they’ve decided to get the small things moved back to the Ruins, to Home, beforehand in order to prevent a great moving rush while you’re going to need the time to adjust to full rulership, and enjoy some alone time with your soon-to-be husband in lieu of a proper honeymoon.

That means suitcases, carrying, long boat rides, and hiking through Snowdin Forest to get to the old castle. All three of the Dreemurrs are strong and can handle the heavy lifting by themselves, but you want to do your part as well, so you dress warmly, pull on your gloves from Toriel to reduce the suitcases’ weight, and strap on wrist braces on top of them.

Traveling all the way back across the underground is a curious experience. No one really stops you to chat, considerate of the large packages that you’re handling; when you get to Snowdin, Rufus arrives with his parents and offers to help, saving you a few trips back and forth from the Riverperson’s boat. (You try not to be too jealous of the way he can just heft a box up on either shoulder and trot along without feeling any strain, and only somewhat succeed.)

Yet more curious an experience is being in the old castle again after so long—it’s still almost identical to New Home aside from the color of the furnishings that Toriel has brought back out of storage, and from the fact that the leftmost bedroom only has its single twin-sized bed. Most of Asriel’s old childhood furniture was left here as-is, since the bedroom in New Home had been intended from the start for you two to share, and its furnishings too had been set up with that goal in mind.

“Everything’s so tiny,” Asriel says, bewildered, a note of something like awe in his voice. He sits on his childhood bed, taking up nearly all of it with his great bulk. “I can’t believe I used to sleep here. I can’t believe we _both_ used to fit in here.”

“We did,” you say, nudging him over so that you can just barely wedge yourself in next to him. Back in the very beginning, you had been too terrified to leave Asriel’s side for more than a few minutes at a time, and you hadn’t been able to sleep without hugging him, soft and fluffy and warm up against your chest, his own arms tucked around your waist with strength that had surprised you. “I can barely believe sometimes that I actually used to be taller than you.”

“Only by a couple inches,” he protests, sounding almost put out, and you elbow him gently. “And I was already taller than you when we were twelve.”

You look him up and down. “It’s difficult to forget,” you say, smiling just a little. “After all, you had so very—” you reach up and take his face between your hands, guiding him down with your fingers wrapped around the bases of his horns “— _very_ —” you kiss him lightly, playfully, along the seam of his lips; he flicks the thin tip of his tongue out at yours “—much growing to do.”

He gets his arms around your waist to lift you up, you draw him gently down with your hands still at his horns, and you meet softly in the middle, breathing finding an easy rhythm. The bed’s too small, the space you inhabit too narrow, for you to rearrange yourselves comfortably and go further, so you just hang in the interim for a while, mouths meeting and coming apart as you or Asriel shift around for a better angle.

Eventually he lets you sink back down to the mattress, and you push back into his side, snuggling close. Just in time, too; there’s a knock at the door, and then Rufus lets himself in with orders to “stop necking and come help unpack already”. Grinning a little, you obey.

When work reaches a lull, you meet Asriel’s gaze and tilt your head towards Toriel. He looks at you blankly for only a moment before his brown eyes light with understanding, and he goes over to Asgore and Rufus to keep them distracted so that you can approach his mother.

“Would you like to take a little walk to get some rest?” you suggest as soon as the two of you have greeted one another.

Toriel regards you with some surprise, and then her face breaks into a warm smile. “Of course, my child,” she says, and out you go through the door to the Ruins, side by side.

She lets you set the pace, which also lets you lead, and you meander further and further into the washed purple walls of stone, rustling through the leaves. You’re never sure how the single tree growing in front of Home manages to get them as far out as it does—it tends to lose its leaves not long after it grows them, but it sends piles and piles of them throughout the area. It’s impressive.

You navigate old puzzles carelessly, smiling sometimes with nostalgia. Toriel had worried at first when Asriel brought you back here to play, given how unfamiliar you had been with monsters’ love of the things. (Also probably out of worry that you would be tempted by the spike puzzles, which she couldn’t blunt as well as she could the household tools, couldn’t hide like the knives, and couldn’t render soft and harmless like the hearth fire. But your urges to hurt yourself diminished significantly when she and Asgore and Asriel gave you other avenues to exhaust your energy, so out to play you went.)

It’s all baby stuff now—at least mostly; immediately after your arrival you couldn’t deal with the cracked floor puzzles because falling terrified you, and it was a long time before you could take the plunge into the soft leaf piles below for fun. You have to be careful now, too, because you doubt that your knees and ankles could take the impact anymore; two decades of wear and tear on top of the nerve damage from your poisoning have made your chronic pain and mobility issues bad enough already. You’d rather not risk worsening things if you don’t have to.

But you still remember the way, so you don’t have to worry about falling on your face, and Toriel is serene beside you. It’s good that the puzzles are easy; you’re glad that Asriel keeps gently turning Elder Puzzler down when they start complaining that you young’uns don’t appreciate proper block puzzles enough and ought to install some. Those were frustrating enough even just watching Asriel try to solve them in his old video games—the real-life underground doesn’t need them for real.

“Chara?” Toriel asks, the tiniest tinge of concern finally entering her voice as you duck through the great archway that leads towards where you first fell.

“I’m okay,” you tell her. “I just wanted to talk to you, and this seemed like a good opportunity. No one will come to bother us out here.”

“If you are sure, my child,” is all she says, and you keep going.

When you arrive in the cavern, you catch your breath.

You’d heard, of course, that flowers had been planted here to soften the impact after Prase had arrived, just in case more humans might fall or jump in the future. But you’ve never been back here since your poisoning, so you’ve never seen it for yourself.

A thick carpet of soft flowers in all different shapes and colors make a gentle cushion over the mound that had been covered in bare patchy grass when you’d fallen. You bend at the waist and knees to run your hands through the petals, and decide what the hell and lean into them, rolling onto your back to stretch out and gaze lazily up at the distant Barrier’s glow and the hole you fell through.

Toriel sits neatly in the earth next to the flowers, her face crinkled with mirth. “You silly child,” she says, and the words are so gentle and fond, without any rebuke in them at all. You tremble a little, and she reaches out to rest her hand on your shoulder. The warmth of the touch relaxes you. She strokes the curve of your bicep with her thumb, a calming repetitive motion, and you let out the breath you didn’t realize you were holding.

“Does this make you uncomfortable?” she asks. You shake your head, carefully so that you won’t scatter too many flower petals.

“Thank you for always being so considerate,” you tell her.

Toriel’s smile goes pained. “Oh, Chara,” she says. “That is not something you should have to feel grateful for. You deserve to be treated with care and respect.”

“I probably do, but I still can’t expect it from others,” you tell her, and close your eyes. The distant surface light plays against your eyelids. Toriel continues to stroke you with one finger, and you let her. “Especially not authority figures. So I’ll always be grateful for you and Asgore and the way that you treat me. It is _incredible_ to me that you’ve been as patient as you are, Toriel.” Your voice wavers a little. “I—I know it cannot have been easy. Watching me flinch away from you so often, despite that you mean me no harm.”

“It is not your fault,” she reminds you.

You just shake your head.

“I’ve been… trying to work on processing some things, I suppose,” you say, and open your eyes to turn and look at her. Your foster mother is watching you with an expression of mild concern. “And I think I want to… try to talk to you about my—my birth mother, if I may. It’s not… that I’m trying to excuse myself, but that I want you to understand. That I think you deserve to understand.

“And you and Asgore have always been so kind and accepting and willing to listen, even when I couldn’t speak of these things at all, so… I want to try to let you care for me, if that makes any sense at all.”

Toriel nods. “It makes sense, my child.” She pauses. “Gorey mentioned that you had spoken to him about your birth father.”

You nod. “I did.”

“That must have taken a great deal of courage, and I am proud of you.”

You smile bitterly and reach up to clench your fist on your locket. “It did. It did, but—I feel as though that was the easier thing to discuss. My father was just a bad person, plain and simple. He hurt me, terribly, but I was able to just hate and resent him without having second thoughts or being confused. My mother…”

Here you trail off and close your eyes, trying to figure out how best to explain it. “When I was small—and even sometimes when it was just the two of us, she would be kind. More and more rarely as I grew, but she would be kind. My father hated our Jewishness, he forbade her from practicing her religion under his roof, but when he was away during holidays… back before he caught her at it, she would celebrate with just me, and tell me stories. She was more understanding than him. He hurt her, too, so I felt like it was supposed to be… we were supposed to be the same, on the same side. I had to look out for her, and she had to look out for me.

“But she didn’t. I loved her, and she let me down, over and over. When my father tortured me she would stand there and do nothing, even if I screamed for her to help me. Nobody _ever_ came when I called for help, until Asriel. Until you and all the other monsters. I’m—” Your voice breaks, here. “I’m glad, I’m glad it hurt so much I called for help on reflex anyway, even though I was so sure no one would answer. I’m so glad he saved me. I’m so glad you and Asgore took me in.”

You close your eyes tight, screw your face up against the urge to sob. Toriel continues to stroke your shoulder, not saying anything. You scrub hot tears from your temples and release your locket to rest your hand over hers.

“I loved my mother. I loved her even though she hurt me, with words and with actions and physical abuse sometimes too. She wasn’t as bad, she wasn’t as evil, she was suffering too, so I loved her and I trusted her and every time, she betrayed me, she let me down. And then she would turn around and be kind again, in the strangest ways. Even after my father made her give up our faith for good, she didn’t rat me out to him when she caught me studying Hebrew in secret. She started making me wear dresses as punishment after I tried to talk to her about my gender, she hit me and told me that she didn’t raise an _it,_ but she never told my father. When she was in a good mood she would buy me candy from the supermarket.

“I wanted her to love me,” you manage to force out. “I made up excuses for her, for why she didn’t. It was because my father hated me and she was protecting herself, or it was because I was a bad kid, so of course I was hard to care for. But she was only ever good to me when it suited her. I think she—she must have thought of me as more of a pet or a toy than a person. I couldn’t please her no matter how hard I tried, just like I couldn’t protect myself from my father.

“I’m still angry. It’s been twenty _years_ and I’m still confused. I’m still disappointed in her; I still want what we could have, ought to have, had. I think… the way she treated me probably damaged me just as much as what my father did to me.”

You’re silent for a while, trying to get your composure; Toriel waits for you.

“I’m—it means a great deal to me that you’ve been so patient with me, that you don’t get angry when some tiny little thing sends me five or ten years back and I panic over nothing. I know I’m being unreasonable. I know it must hurt you when I’m constantly flinching over your every word. I just—”

“Chara,” Toriel says gently, and you hush. “It would be terrible of me if I were to hold your behavior against you. You had to become this hypervigilant to protect yourself; you spent so very much of your early life afraid. These things take time to heal. It was at least a century before Gorey and I fully recovered from what we saw and what we did in the war. Your progress—your effort, your determination—is remarkable.

“And I know that I am not blameless,” she goes on, yet gentler. “I frightened you badly at a time when you were very vulnerable. I could have been, ought to have been, more careful with you, more understanding. It is only right that I accept the consequences of my actions.”

You shake your head. “No, you had a right to be angry at me. I hurt your husband. I hurt your son. I deceived you. I was going to make Asriel a murderer, and I could have gotten him seriously injured or worse, if my plan had gone awry in the end. You had _every_ right to be furious.”

“Either way, we cannot take back the past,” Toriel says kindly. “You are alive, and you are safe, and you are recovering. That is what matters most.”

You squeeze her hand briefly, then release it. Careful, you sit up, and open your eyes. Toriel is much more composed than Asgore was when you spoke with him, but then she usually is anyway. There’s still concern in her eyes as she watches you—concern, and love.

“Thank you for listening,” you tell her. “I said this to Asgore too, but—I’m always going to be grateful for how much better you’ve been to me than my real parents were. Even though that’s why I’m always going to have trouble thinking of you as my mother, because I can’t divorce the concept of _mother_ from what mine was like. You’re so much better than that. You’ve supported me, cared for me, been mindful of my needs, been patient with me and kept trying despite how—how awfully gunshy I am. I love you very much.

“And if—if you’re willing. Asriel and I want you to be the last one to bless us at our wedding.” You glance away, nervous, then look back at Toriel. She’s still smiling at you.

“I would be honored to do so, my child,” she answers at once. And then she leans in to press her soft nose to your forehead. “I am so very proud of you. Of both of you. It has been a long journey for you, and despite the disadvantages you’ve faced, you have put a great deal of effort into moving forward—in your recovery, and in your relationship with Asriel. It makes me happy, being able to support you when I can.”

You breathe out and smile back. “Thank you.”

Toriel nods, and gets to her feet slowly, reaching out to pull you up with her. You let her. “Now,” she says, the halfway point between gentle and brisk, “let us return to the others and get this job done. We must have all of this finished so that the last of the wedding planning and rehearsals may receive our full attention.”

“Right,” you say.

The journey back is just as silent as the one here was, but this time Toriel leads you, and you let her guide you by the hand the whole while.

 

 

“All done,” Prase says. “You can open your eyes now.”

You do, hesitant, and they gesture to the mirror over the countertop. You twist in your seat to get a good look at yourself.

The changes are subtle: Your face hasn’t been transformed into a perfect beautiful mask, the way that makeup always seems to do in your books. The dark circles under your eyes are still there, the way they always are, but Prase has softened them so that the reddish purple is less noticeable. They didn’t paint your lips or smooth over the faint lines around your mouth that you know are going to deepen into wrinkles someday, but your cheekbones seem subtly more prominent, the curve of your face softer.

“I do not understand how you just did that,” you say, leaning in to frown at yourself in fascination. “But it’s incredible. Forget Liron, you and Innig are the real wizards here.”

Prase smiles, resting their hands on your shoulders. “Thank Innig, really; she knows a lot more about this particular kind of makeup than I do. I don’t like covering my freckles up, so I don’t wear all that much, and I’m not supposed to when I’m working in the lab anyway. Don’t poke at it, also,” they warn. “This stuff is supposed to be pretty smear-proof, but it’s not going to stay forever if you’re touching it a lot.”

You lower your hands. “I’ll keep that in mind, then.”

The idle conversation is steadying, a tiny necessary slice of normality, but it feels absurdly out of place all the same.

The past week has flown by in a great scurry of rehearsals and last-minute planning; you feel dizzy and windswept. There’s barely been any time for nerves, barely any time to _think,_ and now here you are in the dressing room, seated on a stool in your white dress while Prase fusses over you, with barely half an hour left before the ceremony is set to begin.

Your reflection in the mirror is stunning. The outer gown you wear atop the white wedding dress itself is heavy full fabric, too majestic and dramatic to require adornment, the fabric a delicate gradation from dark green at your feet to your usual pale shade at your shoulders and chest. Your locket, and the engagement ring on your left hand, shine brilliant gold against the green and white; your shoes peep out ruby red beneath the crisp lines of your skirt. They have very small heels—what Innig calls kitten heels, adding barely an inch to your natural five foot seven. You’ve practiced walking in them, and the balance isn’t so terrible that you risk your knees or ankles giving out on you as you stand. (You have your knee braces on beneath your skirt and slacks anyway.) Even the silver shot through your hair seems dignified, matching the pearly white of your dress.

Prase is changed into their ceremonial clothes too—a light yellow dress with a slightly darker sash, and pink shoes with low heels that could be the twin of your own. In monsters’ custom of donning the colors of one participant or another, they’re showing their support for you; though both of them have left to take their places in the ballroom, Innig’s short dress is green and her pointe shoes pale gold, and Undyne’s dress slacks and the lapels of her sleeveless suit jacket are gold too. You haven’t seen him, but you know that Sans plans to attend wearing a suit with gold trim and a yellow boutonniere; Papyrus, you believe, will be wearing a similar ensemble trimmed in light blue to show support for Asriel. Rufus, Alphys, and Liron have all announced their intentions to come in Asriel’s colors.

“You’re absolutely beautiful,” you inform your friend.

Prase squeezes your shoulders. “Thank you,” they say, smiling. “So are you.”

You turn so that you can look up at them instead of watching their reflection. “No jokes about how little you love turning me over to Asriel?” you prod, smiling.

Prase shakes their head. They still have their old ribbon tied in their hair, knotted at their right temple instead of along their part. “Not today, no,” they say, their smile soft and crooked. “This is your big day. I want you to be happy. You’ve both shown how much work you’re willing to put into this relationship, so I have hope that you will be, if you do your best.”

You lay your hands over theirs and lean against their forearm. “Thank you,” you tell them. “It really does mean a lot to me.”

“Oh, don’t _cry,_ I just did your makeup,” they say fondly. They lean down and kiss the top of your head, firm and sensible; their hair swings down into your face, ribbon dangling after it, breasts hanging heavy against their arms and your shoulders in the mirror. “You can cry all you like later, once the ceremony’s over with. Though you might be able to get away with a little leaking in the middle—I mostly used foundation and such, no mascara or anything that’s _really_ obvious when it runs.”

“My heart is absolutely aflutter from all this consideration,” you say, and Prase laughs at you, squeezing your shoulders one last time and then letting go.

The changing room door opens, letting Toriel in. She’s already donned her robes, too—they’re a perfect snowy white, shadows on the cloth silvery blue. The only color in her costume is the Delta Rune on her breast, the rune and its bordering gold on a sky-blue field instead of the usual white and blue.

“It is good to see you ready, Chara, Prase,” she says, smiling. “You have yet to put your hair up, have you not? I believe I may have just the thing.”

“I’ll leave you to it,” Prase says, patting the center of your back. “I’m going to go find Dad and my brothers so I’ll be ready to speak when I’m called on.”

And with a wave, they duck past your foster mother and leave, closing the door very gently behind them.

“How are you feeling?” Toriel asks.

You shake your head. “I don’t think it’s quite sunk in. A little nervous, a little happy.”

“You are in a far better state than myself and Gorey at our wedding,” she informs you with a chuckle. “I nearly fainted, and so did he.”

“Most likely I’m too terrified to appreciate just how scared out of my wits I am,” you remark, and she laughs.

“Now,” she says. “Your hair is still a bit too short to put up in a proper-sized bun or to braid, but I think I have a solution.”

And she produces a lacquered box from within one of her sleeves with no further ceremony. Curious, you swivel around to face her directly as she holds it out to you and pops the lid.

You gasp aloud as you see the contents.

The box contains a number of enamel hairpins in the shape of flowers. They’re each about two and a half to three inches in diameter; the flowers look rather like plumeria, although their coloring is backwards—gold at the petals and white in the center. Lengths of what look like gold wire are propped against the edges of the box; everything rests on velvety black cushions.

“These are _beautiful,”_ you exclaim, reaching out carefully to touch one of the pins. It’s smooth and perfect under your fingertips.

“I am glad to hear it,” Toriel says, “for I have had these set aside for you for a very long time. From a few months after you and Asriel announced your engagement, in fact.” She pauses. “If it would be all right with you, I will help you get your hair up.”

You’re left poleaxed and gape-mouthed for several seconds, _thank you_ and _yes please_ and _why are you being so nice to me?_ warring for dominance in your throat. You close your mouth at last, swallow, and nod to her.

Toriel bids you to turn back around to grant her easy access to your hair, and you do so; she retrieves herself a seat, and begins to card the hair at the nape of your neck with a comb and careful, nimble claws.

“Just—just be careful not to pull too hard,” you say weakly, trying your best not to move your head and jostle her. “I’ll either panic or be sick. Either would be bad right now.”

“I will not harm you,” Toriel reassures, gentle. She works quietly for a few minutes, her claws cool and ticklish on the nape of your neck. “Your hair is a bit short for this, or I would simply braid it in the back; as it is, I shall use the pins and the decorative wire to keep everything in place. It will hold perfectly well nonetheless, as long as you do not play with it. And when you are tired of wearing your hair this way, all you must do is take the clips out to let it down; you will not need my or anyone else’s help.”

“That sounds convenient,” you say, closing your eyes and letting her work. All your hair is tucked up off your neck now; only your bangs and the hair framing your face has been left to fall naturally. You hear a quiet snap as the first pin is settled in place, then another and another, and the adjustment of something firm but not uncomfortable cradling the back of your skull.

“There,” Toriel says happily. “All finished.”

You open your eyes, but all the mirror before you shows is that the hair that should be falling over your shoulders is now held up somehow. You frown.

“Here,” Toriel tells you, producing a hand mirror; she holds it up behind the back of your head, and you gasp again, delighted color rising to your cheeks. She’s done something to your hair to make it look like it’s woven up at the hairline, curling around the curve at the base of your skull. The flower-shaped pins and gold wire sit bright against your dark hair, seeming more as though they’re simply decorating your appearance than holding whatever Toriel did in place. It’s as good as being crowned with flowers—the effect is perfect.

“Thank you,” you say, your voice starting to waver and tremble. You reach up hastily to dab at your eyes, remembering Prase’s warnings about the makeup. “For thinking of me. For doing all this for me. For—everything.”

“You are most welcome,” Toriel says, smiling. “Now—I must take my leave, so that I am ready to escort Asriel to the pavilion. Gorey should be here any moment now; he will take care of you the rest of the way.”

You stand as she does, and grasp her hands in your own briefly, searching her face; words have deserted you completely, and you just shake your head slowly, hoping that your expression will convey to her all that you’re feeling.

Toriel leans in to bump her nose against your forehead, squeezes your hands back, and sweeps off with grace to leave the room.

You steady yourself with another breath, picking up the box with Asriel’s ring inside and slipping it into the pocket of your dress. It’s almost time.

 

 

The little things ground you through your long walk down the castle halls: Your fingers clamped tight on Asgore’s sleeve as you walk with your arm through his, the continual flick of his gaze down to you as if to check on you, how blessedly warm and steady he is. The long measured strides you have to take to keep your paces matched, carrying you down the hall in a stately glide.

When you come to a stop, it’s at the great ballroom doors. You take a deep breath, squeezing Asgore’s arm; he squeezes back, gentle.

“Ready?” he murmurs to you. You take a deep bracing breath and then nod. He pushes the door open, and then in you go.

There are excited murmurs in the crowd, but they’re so quiet that you can still hear your and Asgore’s steps on the long gold-embroidered white carpet, that the gentle whisper of your skirts along the ground make it impossible to tell what anyone is saying. You keep your eyes down. You’d been able to handle the sheer volume of monsters packed into the ballroom for Asriel’s coronation because they weren’t there for you, but you’re afraid that if you look up you’ll catch sight of someone you know or get dizzied by the amount of people, and falter or trip or otherwise embarrass yourself. So you look at your feet and the carpet ahead of you, for safety’s sake.

In both your people’s tradition and in monster ones, it’s typical for one’s parents to lead one to the canopy and/or presiding monster, though the exact specifics differ. Jewish tradition holds that a bride shall be escorted by her mother and mother-in-law-to-be, and a bridegroom by his father and father-in-law-to-be. Monster tradition holds that each monster should be escorted by one of their own parents. You are neither a bride nor a bridegroom, and Asriel’s parents are your guardians, so this is the first article upon which you’ve had to compromise. You talked it over with Asriel, Liron, Gerson, Asgore, and Toriel; the ultimate decision was that you and Asriel would each go with the parent you’re closer to—you with Asgore, and he with Toriel.

Asgore slows and brings you to a stop. You raise your head.

Asriel stands before you, dressed in the sky.

Looking at him, you quite forget to breathe: The tailors have truly outdone themselves this time. You saw the concept sketches, of course, but they’re nothing to the finished version: Asriel’s mantle is a deep midnight color, scattered with gold and silver stars that almost seem to twinkle. The dress beneath it seems to have been cut whole from your memories of the sunlit sky—soft pale blue at the hem, interrupted by cumulus clouds that look too real to have been rendered on cloth, then darker and more vivid at his chest and shoulders. There’s another smattering of stars here, disappearing underneath the mantle; its gold borders are held together at his breastbone by a pin in the shape of the Delta Rune. His locket vanishes behind it, the chain still visible against the front of the dress. The shirt he wears beneath it is the same silvery white as his parents’ robes, clean and shaded in blues.

His expression is the stunned twin of your own, his eyes wide as they travel over you from head to toe, and some powerful emotion wells up in you, too vital and too raw for you to name.

Slowly, as you become more aware of your surroundings, you realize that Asgore and Toriel are exchanging knowing smiles from beside you and Asriel. You can’t even drum up any chagrin; you just keep staring at Asriel, your face and your ears heating up.

You hadn’t seen the canopy before, the chuppah; it hadn’t been finished before the last of your rehearsals. You were expecting… well, you aren’t entirely sure; simple metal poles, in the absence of literal trees to provide you with branches. But someone—you suspect Asgore—has gotten flowered vines to curl up the golden poles that hold the cloth canopy. They’re heavy with buds and blossoms, white and pale pink, and they lend a gentle perfume to the air around you. Your eyes sting to look at it for too long, so you return your gaze to Asriel in a hurry.

There’s a gentle tap at the floor, and you turn sharply: It’s Gerson tapping the ground with his cane to get the gathering’s attention. He, too, is dressed in formal white. As the oldest of the Dreemurrs’ acquaintances, it is his job to oversee the proceedings today.

“Ladies, gentlemen, distinguished guests,” he says, his reedy old voice ringing clear. “We’re gathered here today to celebrate the union of our king, Asriel Dreemurr, and his partner Chara.

“Love’s a funny thing. You could say that fate had a role in their, in _our_ coming this far. You could also say that choice has had a role in it, too. But the fact that these two young people stand here today is a crystallization of their own love and determination, and the compassion and support of our nation. The hope of humans and monsters, these two have been called in the past.” He pauses and clears his throat, his smile as unwavering as his beady gaze. “But now, at last, we stand at the absolute—at the union of our two peoples, and of two loving hearts.”

He pauses again, and breaks from the script you and Asriel worked out for him beforehand to look levelly at you and at Asriel and say, “I am _extraordinarily_ proud of both you kids.”

You smile and look down at your feet.

“Now our betrothed couple will exchange their rings,” Gerson directs. “Asriel, you first.”

When you look up, Asriel has produced a little gray velvet box, and is opening it to produce a gold ring, which he picks out delicately to hold between his forefinger and thumb. It’s dwarfed between his huge fingers and thick pads. He reaches out to take your right hand and lifts it, bending in close as he slips it over your right ring finger. The band is thin gold etched with a thorny vine pattern, leading to three delicately wrought red roses, each with a small diamond seated in the middle of the petals. It’s a beautiful piece of work, and the floral motif works well with the engagement ring that sits on the ring finger of your other hand. But what occurs to you even as you think this is that you’re glad both rings have upraised designs—this way you’ll have makeshift knuckledusters if you ever need them. The thought makes you grin.

Asriel leans in close as he holds your hand, so close that his nose brushes your cheek and the fur of his ear tickles your nose. In a low whisper that will not carry past the canopy, he says to you and you alone, “Behold, you are consecrated to me with this ring according to the law of Moses and Israel.”

Your heart stops for just a moment, your breath stuttering, cool tingles running up your spine. You knew that he was going to say the proper words, but it’s different hearing it from him in rehearsal and hearing it now, with love and tenderness and respect in his voice.

Then Asriel straightens up, smiling shyly, and Gerson prompts, “Now you, Chara.”

Asriel releases your right hand as you slip your left into your pocket and pull out the box you’d had prepared. The ring inside, when you remove it, is easily large enough for you to get two fingers into; the band is broad, a pale gold that’s nearly silver in color. Across the top of the ring, tiny diamonds are studded, arranged in a tiny approximation of Canes Venatici. Asriel breathes in sharply; when you glance upwards quickly, you see that his eyes are wide in recognition. You take his right hand and slide the ring home, adjusting it at the base of his finger so that his fur isn’t pushed the wrong way beneath it.

You let your fingertips linger over Cor Caroli and Chara, drawing Asriel’s gaze to the star whose name you took for your own. Then you shift your hands to hold his in both of yours, squeezing.

For a moment you’re afraid that your voice will fail you—you know, have always known, that your accent is atrocious, and it makes you shy. But you practiced for hours, for days, with Liron, letting hir correct you patiently over and over until you could speak this one phrase perfectly. So you fold your lips into your mouth to wet them, swallow, and say, “Ani l’dodi, ve dodi li.”

Your voice is firm, without a single tremble to betray your anxiety, and it carries. Your pronunciation is—somehow—perfect.

This is the part where, in human weddings, the couple would be directed to kiss. But monster wedding ceremonies call for something rather different.

You release Asriel’s hand and stand apart from him, and Gerson raps the ground once more with his cane. You can feel his magic wash over you, and with a crackle at your sternum, your soul emerges vibrant and red from your breast to hover between your palms. Asriel gasps a little, hands held out to cup his own soul—a pure, brilliant white heart, not so different at all from your own.

Gerson taps the ground again. Your soul and Asriel’s rise, twirling between you as if dancing, and his soul comes to rest in your hands as yours settles in his.

Heat washes over all of you, along with a very peculiar sensation. All at once, the vivid memory of your and Asriel’s first kiss washes over you, then that of the first time you held him in your hands, and the first time he was inside you. That same sense of intimacy, of utter vulnerability, comes over you now; you feel entirely exposed, but where you ought to feel afraid or ashamed, you simply relax. You can almost feel Asriel’s hands cupping your whole body, and you wonder if he feels yours. If he does—you hope he feels just as safe as you do now.

Asriel is smiling, his face and hands lit red with the glow of your soul, the fur of his cheeks wet with tears. You realize that you’re smiling, too.

Gerson taps the ground a third time, and you let go of Asriel’s soul; the two hearts, red and white, dance in the air once more, each now settling in the hands of its proper owner. As one, you and Asriel press your souls back into your own bodies. But the sense of his touch, his presence, his care and love still linger on.

“Congratulations,” Gerson says. “The two of you are now a wedded couple.”

Applause swells from the crowd: Low at first, then rising in volume, voices raised in cheers of joy. You step forward into Asriel’s chest, reaching up to hold his face and bring him down for a kiss; his strong arms encircle you, lifting you up into the air and twirling with you briefly before setting you back down.

The crowd’s voices begin to calm. Asgore reaches out to touch your shoulder, leaning in to voice his congratulations; you smile and touch at your eyes to blot away tears as they form, pushing your weight back against his touch to show your affection without having to let go of your partner.

“And now,” Gerson goes on, “we will have a word or two from the friends and family of our monarchs.”

Chairs shift; monsters and humans part, allowing five people to walk through the crowds to approach the canopy. Asgore and Toriel both leave their spots from behind you and Asriel too, joining their line.

Your chest clutches with one brief unhappy pang with the knowledge that the Sheva Brachot ought to have gone here, or even before Gerson’s spell to let you touch each other’s souls, but you shove it away as Prase steps up to stand before you and the whole wedding procession, holding a glass of white wine in their left hand.

“Chara has been my best friend since I was ten years old,” they say in the respectful hush, holding the wine glass high. “When we first met, they were still recovering from terrible things. It’s been a long time since then, and although there have been plenty of bad days too—and there will always be bad days, sometimes, because that’s just how these things work—they’ve grown into a kind, bright, vibrant adult. A lot of the credit for that should go to their own efforts and their support network, but it’s easy to see that their feelings for Asriel have been a source of strength for them.

“I’m happy for you, Chara—I really am. I’m very proud of you both, and I hope you and Asriel continue to be happy together. Whenever you need me—and I mean this for _both_ of you—I’ll always be here to help in whatever ways I can.”

They pass the wine glass to Rufus next. He clears his throat and holds it up even higher than Prase did, so that his hand is about level with the top of his head.

“Prase is right,” he says. “When I first came to the underground, everybody told me—Rufus, when you meet Chara, you’ve gotta be careful with them. They’re shy, they’re still hurting. And there was a lot of talk about Asriel too, about how there was kinda this gap between him and everyone else, ‘cause he’s the prince, ‘cause he has to put so much energy into taking care of Chara. None of that’s true anymore. They’ve both grown up into stronger, kinder, friendlier and more open people—into good rulers. They’ve put so much work into this, it’s amazing, and a big part of why they’ve gotten as far as they have is ‘cause they’ve got each other. You’re both amazingly brave and you set a good example for everybody, including me.

“Also—” he grins wide, cheekily, and you glare at him. He isn’t daunted. “They were still supposed to be dating in secret back when I met ‘em, and like?? It was _so obvious_ that they were in big sloppy mushy goofy love, even then when they were trying to _hide_ it. They’re as bad as the old king and queen, and my parents. I’m glad you goobers are finally tying the knot officially, ‘cause even a ten year old like I was could tell how goddamn married you’ve always been.”

 _“Rufus,”_ you say, low with embarrassment, as laughter rises from the crowd. He gives you this huge shit-eating grin as if to protest that it’s true so what do you want from him.

Innig extends her hand for the wineglass, and Rufus passes it to her. His cheeks go dark when their fingers brush, and he drops his gaze quickly; Innig favors him with a long, thoughtful look before she turns back to you and Asriel. You look to him briefly and find your own amusement twinkling in his eyes too.

“I first met Chara and Asriel when they were fighting,” she says. “It was nearly ten years ago now, so some of you who have gathered here might not even remember that; it’s the worst time I’ve ever seen them fight, and it might be one of the worst arguments they had over the course of their relationship.” Privately, you think it might still be second to Asriel’s attempts to get you to abandon your plan, but that’s not something you’re going to volunteer out loud. “Obviously, they worked things out in the end, because here we all are at their wedding.” This gets a laugh from the guests. “But ever since then, they’ve put real work into keeping their relationship a healthy one, and made sure to talk problems like that out before they get to be so bad. Watching them has taught me a lot, and it’s certainly raised _my_ standards for what I might want in a relationship someday.” (Rufus’ blush returns in full force, though Innig is watching you and Asriel and doesn’t seem to notice.) “I hope only the best for the two of you, and above and beyond that, I have faith that you can keep this relationship going strong for as long as you live.”

She hands the glass to Undyne, who thrusts it out as if making a toast.

“I train with Asriel and Chara every day as captain of the Royal Guard,” she says. “I’ve trained with ‘em for nearly a decade now. There’s no better way to get to know somebody than meeting them with PASSION on the field of battle! Even if—” she grins hugely “—it’s just a practice match and Asgore’s making you do weapons drills for ages.

“Chara and Asriel’ve both had faith in me since I was just some rowdy shrimpy little brat that wanted to fight everything all the time. They’ve had more faith in me than a lot of people I knew—more than my family did, at the beginning. We’ve all helped each other become the adults we are today. I’m proud of who I am thanks to them! And I’m proud of who they are thanks to each other!! And they should be proud too!!! I’m honored to serve them—not just as their subject, but as their friend! So good luck with your blissful matrimony, you great big nerds!”

Her grin too huge for her face, she passes the wineglass to her girlfriend. Alphys’s claws shake as she accepts it, and she fidgets with her glasses and her dress for a moment before she opens her mouth to speak.

“B-before I met you, Asriel, I… d-didn’t really like myself,” she admits. Her whole face is red under her scales from admitting this before such a huge crowd. “I-I thought that I was j-just some b-big silly nerd with w-weird hobbies, a-and that nob-body would want t-to be friends with me except f-for the one or t-two weirdoes that I already knew.” She smiles, bashful, gaze dropping to her toes for a moment. “B-but I was wrong. Y-you and Chara showed me that I-I have the power t-to help people, t-too. And now I h-have all these great friends and c-coworkers who like me f-for who I am! A-and I like you all too! I-I love my job, and my life, and… even when _I_ have b-bad days… you guys are always there t-to help me through them. T-thank you for everything you’ve d-done for me. I-I know that your future is g-going to be a good one.”

Shyly, she hands the glass to Toriel, who holds it up steadily, warmth in her eyes as she regards you and her son.

“There is no way for me to fully describe the pride and love I feel for the two of you today,” she says, first holding Asriel’s gaze, then yours. “As a mother, and as a guardian, and as a queen; as one who has watched over the two of you as you fell in love, and through all your struggles. I am so glad that you have come so far, and that you have put such effort into all that you do. I know that you will both be just fine, no matter what happens. I love you both very much. I am so very glad that you have found love and comfort and strength in one another. And—do be good to each other, will you not?”

You think that her eyes are just a bit wet when she says this, and you clench your fists as you nod to keep from crying too. Asriel wipes his face openly.

Toriel passes the wineglass to Asgore, who holds it out with a gentle expression. The vessel is dwarfed in his huge hand, but he holds it gently and carefully as anything.

“Chara,” he says, and you straighten up at his tone. “When Asriel brought you to our family, I could not help but see a future in your eyes. It was irresponsible of me—of all of us to rest our hopes on your shoulders. But… I am glad to see that I was not mistaken. I am so very, very proud of you, my child. You have called upon me to bless you, but I am the one who feels blessed—for being able to see you all grown up, on your wedding day.

“Asriel, I am so happy to see you grown—into yourself, into your role as our new ruler. Bravery, strength, patience, self-awareness, and kindness have been asked of you over and over despite your youth. Sometimes unreasonably so. And yet you have always risen to meet the challenge. For that, your mother and I are very proud. We are blessed to have given birth to you—to have you as our son.

“Your future will be a bright one, my children,” he goes on, his eyes just as damp as Toriel’s are. “You are going to do just fine, you understand? No matter what you choose to do, no matter where you decide to lead us. Everyone is going to be right here to support you. We all truly love you, from the bottom of our hearts.”

At this, your vision finally blurs. You squeeze your eyes shut, but tears run hot over your face regardless.

When you open them again, Asgore is passing the glass to Asriel, who raises it to his lips and drains half of it. He hands it to you, and you look at it for a moment. The stem is warm, having passed from hand to hand to reach you.

You look up at Asriel and deliberately rest your mouth exactly where his lips were, draining the sweet wine in one long draft.

Your friends and family back up, and you hold on to Asriel’s arm as you bend down to set the empty glass on the ground. A grin rises to your lips unbidden as you lift your skirts up a few inches so as to position yourself more carefully, resting your heel upon the vessel.

You take a deep, deep breath, tapping your foot against the glass twice. Then you drive your heel down with all your strength, and the thing pops and shatters with an incredibly satisfying crunch.

A great cheer rises up from the audience as they cry out their congratulations; Asriel reaches out to sweep you up into his arms, kissing your cheeks and your forehead and your mouth all over. Just as you laugh and push him back enough so that you can kiss him too, you see from the corner of your eye Toriel gathering up the shattered glass shards into a whole cup again with her magic, clearing the floor so that no one will be hurt.

All but vibrating with joy, you crush your mouth to Asriel’s unabashed, glorying in the applause and whistling from the gathered monsters and fallen humans. Never in your life have you felt so buoyant, so loved.

 

 

It’s so quiet in the hall that you feel like you’re dreaming.

The ballroom itself still buzzes with chatter as monsters rearrange it to hold banquet tables and clear space for dancing, but you and Asriel are alone here. It reminds you a little of the night he proposed to you, and you nestle into his side, admiring both of your rings. He winds an arm around your waist and folds you closer, settling his chin atop your head.

“Do you know,” you say conversationally, “this stage of a wedding is apparently controversial depending on which Jewish community you ask? Liron showed me a book that said there are some who believe the seclusion compromises our modesty.”

Asriel laughs. “I think our modesty’s already good and compromised, Chara.”

You grin. “It’s true. Ten minutes might have been enough for us when we were younger, but I think I’d rather wait until the wedding night—we’ll have privacy in the house to take our leisure with one another.”

You think that as passes go it was a rather clumsy one, but Asriel swallows anyway; you can feel his chest shift with the motion. “I guess that is all for the best,” is all he says aloud, though, his tone mild. “Our clothes are so nice, I’d hate to mess them up.”

“So would I,” you say. “You’re so beautiful in these.”

“And you,” Asriel says, “are very handsome.”

He reaches to cup your head in his hands, and lifts you up halfway so that you can kiss each other comfortably. You close your eyes and ease into the familiar warmth, the gentle motions; he whines low into your mouth, and you sigh into his cheek. Love, or lust, or nerves, or wine makes your face hot and gives you the strange sense of floating.

The noise of the crowd inside suddenly increases in volume, and you pull back from Asriel, breathing hard. Liron’s standing at the door, holding it open, looking at you nonplussed in hir long double-breasted coat and short dress.

“Ten minutes have passed and yichud is officially over,” ze announces. “Come and enjoy your party.”

You and Asriel exchange _oh well_ looks; he puts you down, and you follow Liron back into the ballroom, hand in hand.

Everyone still seems to be getting things set up—Mettaton is directing monsters in the placement of various instruments and speakers, Napstablook and Shyren hovering nervously near him. The hotel concierge is having chefs ready appetizers to be brought in—you recognize Astis amongst them; he’s near enough to where the Gasters are sitting for Papyrus to notice him and say hello. Alphys and her assistants are sitting at a table near the one the Royal Guard occupies, probably so that she and Undyne can still talk; everywhere you look there are more monsters you recognize. The head table is all ready, too; Asgore and Toriel both sit on either side of the chairs that are clearly reserved for you and Asriel.

“Well, husband?” you ask him in a low voice. His breath catches a little; you can’t blame him, as the word is ticklish in your own mouth too. “Are you ready to rejoin the festivities?”

Asriel leans down and nuzzles your temple until you laugh. “With you,” he says, “I’m ready for just about anything.”

You turn your head to peck his nose. “You’re sweet, Ree.”

“No sweeter than you are, Chara,” he says, grinning at you.

And so, hand in hand, you walk together to take your place in the thrones that have been prepared for you.

**Author's Note:**

> this fic got fanart from @yosupfire on twitter ([chara and asriel](https://twitter.com/yosupfire/status/746702369484738560), [chara with prase and astis](https://twitter.com/yosupfire/status/755017583544328192)), [kamimi](https://feralphoenix.tumblr.com/post/147767348959/), [rainglazed](http://rainglazed.tumblr.com/post/155223468915/), and hedonistbyheart ([chara and asgore/chara and toriel](http://hedonistbyheart.tumblr.com/post/166121679904), [chara and asriel](http://hedonistbyheart.tumblr.com/post/166605361949/))! thank you!!


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